


Demons Visit Me at Night

by WholockHobbit88



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Child Abuse, Drug Use, Flashbacks, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series 3, Sexual Abuse, Sherlock and John feels, Sherlock's Childhood, Sherlock's Past, adult themes/issues, damaged Sherlock, heavy duty angst, hurt/ comfort, nightmares/ night terrors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:32:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 45,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WholockHobbit88/pseuds/WholockHobbit88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock comes home from working a seemingly normal case alone after disappearing for several days, John knows something is wrong with him. His behavior becomes more and more alarming until he snaps and does the unthinkable. After his mental break he is put into a mental hopstial where John visits him regularly. John does everything he can to support his friend through a terrible trauma but he fears Sherlock may never be the same again.<br/>Warning: contains sexual and child abuse themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story originally before Series 3. Any flashbacks or mentions of Sherlock's past dont coincide with the information we got regarding Sherlock's family during the third series.

John’s head was spinning; the lights, the sound, it was all so much. He was used to the harsh environment of a hospital; the bright florescent lights that burn your eyes, the drab décor that sucked what little happiness you had left out of you, the unavoidable noise that came with the stress and high pace work of a hospital. It was viewed differently as a patient of course, but he had been a patient plenty of times and it had never felt like this. The hospital had never created such a sense of panic and being trapped. 

His shoulder burned painfully; the bandages seemed too tight as he sweated from stress and fear. He scratched around the bandage; the stiches he knew were under it the only reason he didn’t rip it off. He looked around the waiting area of the hospital; it was a busy night in the hospital and he was stuck waiting for a room, surrounded by other mildly sick people. A child with a broken leg, a woman who couldn’t stop vomiting, a man who kept complaining that no one was listing to him. They were all like him, waiting. Except they were all with family members. John was alone. 

John felt a lump form in his throat and swallowed it painfully down; he refused to cry here in font of all these people. He could do that when he was back at the flat….alone? Would he be alone? Could he bear it if he was? John pulled out his mobile and checked it for the thousandth time, knowing there would be no text or call. God, what were they doing to him? 

John felt the unstoppable point of tears begin, that point where the moisture in your eyes has reached such a point as to not be able to be held in the eyes any longer. What was the point anyway? No one was here to care….John allowed the tears to spill out of his eyes, putting his hand over his face. The more he cried the harder it got to stop; he tasted salt in his mouth and was sucking his breath in in spurts. The tears were like an avalanche; the more that came out the more they gained speed. When he heard someone’s machine beeping, he rubbed a hand over his tear streaked face, whining at the IV tape that scrapped his face as he rubbed his face. He looked around but couldn’t see anyone in any distress. He did notice the little girl in the corner was watching him; she gave him a sympatric smile. John tried to wipe his nose as much dignity as he could with the back of his hand; what kind of damn hospital didn’t have tissues? 

John looked at the pile of his clothes sitting by the bed; he leaned over, wincing slightly as his shoulder cried out in pain, grabbing at the pile of clothes, looking. When he found the blue scarf under his jumper and trousers, he took it in his hands and gripped it tightly. The soft, familiar fabric of it felt good in his hands as he ran his fingers over it. It even smelled familiar; he didn’t even resist the urge to rub it against his cheek before laying it back down in his lap. The little girl in the corner, clutching a pink, satin blanket smiled as she hugged it; she understood. 

John was glad he had thought to grab the scarf in the chaos. Painful images came flashing back at him; a flash of silver of a knife, blood splatter, pain…..Sherlock on the ground half of the forensics team pinning him to the ground as he screamed….

Suddenly John couldn’t breathe; he sucked in air as quick as he could but it didn’t seem to be enough. His lungs burned, his chest hurt; was this hyperventilating? He couldn’t even guess. He put the scarf to his face and breathed in it through his episode….slowly…slowly….it was helping. He pushed his errant thoughts of you’re a failure out of his head. That wouldn’t help now….he could blame himself for that later. 

John had just gotten himself composed when he saw Greg walk through the door and coming toward him. John sat straight up, eager to talk to him; he would have answers, he would be able to tell him everything was going to be fine. He, after all, knew Sherlock. Surely he’d know this was a mistake. 

Greg looked inexplicably tired. His salt-and-pepper hair was disheveled, his coat rumpled; John was dismayed to see blood still splattered on his shirt. John felt sick to his stomach when he wondered who it belonged to. 

“How is he? What have they done with him? Can I see him?” John croaked out desperately. He had to find out answers soon or he was going to explode. 

John saw Greg’s eyes traveled to the scarf and a slight scowl crossed his face. “How are you? You’re the one with a damn stab wound in your shoulder” he asked with slight anger. He seemed tired; no doubt he was. This was a bloody awful day…

“Forget that” John said, looking idly at his shoulder. It was really just a flesh wound, nothing to get upset about. “I want to know how he is doing” 

“Well, not good, I’m sure you can imagine” Greg said, “ We’re not quite sure what they are going to do with him yet. He’s been taken in for questioning and-“

“Greg, you have to do something! He can’t be there! He didn’t mean to-

“Didn’t mean to what?” Greg asked sarcastically “He didn’t mean to stab five people? He didn’t mean to put Sally in intensive care? Put Anderson in a coma?” Greg gave him a look of disgust. “Look at you….he bloody attacked you and you’re still defending him.” 

The words were painful; they cut him to the heart. He felt like his insides were going to split open. He didn’t meet Greg’s eyes; he looked down at the cheap, rough blanket covering his legs. His shoulder throbbed but he ignored it. “He snapped….” John said distantly. John should have done something sooner; it was building up for weeks and yet he ignored the signs. Allowed Sherlock to get sicker and sicker without seeking help. Now he was probably going to go to jail. “He never would have done that in his right mind….I know it….” 

Greg sighed. “Well, it may come down to that” he said. “ Obviously you’re going to be a key witness” 

John closed his eyes; witness….against Sherlock. He couldn’t do it.   
John looked up at Greg, his eyes stinging from the fatigue, tears and bloody bright lights. “You know him….you know he’s not a criminal” John said, almost begging Greg to believe him. He wouldn’t really mean to hurt me…..

Greg shook his head, rubbing a face across his face. “I hope you’re right….but right now it does not look good for him.” He said tiredly. 

John looked down at Sherlock’s scarf, not able to stop the memory of what had happened. He didn’t want to think about it, to make it real. But it was a slippery slope as one flash of memory rolled into another and he was seeing the whole evening over again…..


	2. Chapter 2

John noted Sherlock’s strange behavior as they rode in the car to the crime scene; he was jiggling his leg so much it was making John nervous and he was biting his fingernails. Or, rather what used to be fingernails and were now just chewed off nubs. If someone had told John a few weeks ago that Sherlock would take up biting his nails, John would have told them that they were crazy. But, then again, Sherlock had changed a lot it seemed. And none of it for the better. 

John watched Sherlock as he continued to bite his fingernail even though from where John was sitting it appeared to be bleeding it was so short. He was wearing his typical strict dress, but it was obvious that he had been wearing these particular clothes for days; they were rumpled and dirty .It was alarming. 

“You know, really, we should just go home and rest” John suggested innocently. “We’ve been working too much lately” 

Sherlock ignored John completely; he was staring out the window even though it was dark and he could hardly see much on the country road they were driving on. He kept jiggling his leg and biting his finger. Now John was sure that he saw blood on Sherlock’s finger. 

“Sherlock, are you listening?” John asked. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, he just swatted at the air in John’s general direction. That was another unpleasant side effect of Sherlock’s new personality; he was speaking a lot less. There was a time that John might have said that would be a good thing, but it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t Sherlock. And his lack of speech wasn’t just lack of speech; it seemed to be part of a more general shutting down. 

“Sherlock, why don’t you answer me?” John asked. “Do we need to tell the cab to turn around?”

Sherlock made a frustrated sound as he put his hands to his hair and pulled viscously. “No….fuck!” He growled at John. He looked over in John’s direction but didn’t meet his eyes. No eye contact….something else that was becoming more and more common. 

John could count the number of times Sherlock had ever said the word ‘fuck’ on one hand and still have fingers left over. He was alarmed; when John noticed Sherlock had actually managed to pull out a small chunk out of his hair. “Hey, stop that” John said, pushing Sherlock’s hands down from his hair. Sherlock smacked at John’s hand but he did leave his hair alone. 

John knew that there was no way in hell that Sherlock needed to be here. His behavior was alarming to say the least. It had been troublesome, and getting worse every day for weeks now. John knew that something was wrong, but of course Sherlock wasn’t going to say what. 

It had started about three weeks ago; Sherlock had gone to assist in the case of a high profile murder while John stayed behind to help close a case that they were working on. The case that they had been working on had consisted of a lot of blood work and he had stayed behind to help Molly with that. Sherlock had went ahead to study the other case on his own. Since it had seemed tame enough, nothing terribly unusual or dangerous, John hadn’t thought anything of it. It been a little bit of a drive and so Sherlock was going to stay in a hotel for a couple of days and help with the case. 

Except that a couple of days had turned into five. Which had turned into a week and a half. 11 days later Sherlock had returned. By this point John was worried. Sherlock hadn’t called or texted him the entire time and Lestrade had only gotten minimal contact from him as well. When Sherlock had walked through the door of the flat totally unannounced, John had almost run at him and thrown his arms around him. But when John got close to Sherlock, he could see that something was very wrong with him. 

When Sherlock had walked through the door it was obvious that he wasn’t the same. He didn’t hold himself up in a proud, tall pose like he normally did; he stood kind of slumped down, almost defeated. His clothes were wrinkled and messy looking, not prim and pressed like they normally were. He was even paler than normal; his skin almost had a sick, grey look to it. But what worried John the most was his eyes; normally so bright and vibrant and full of knowledge. Now were dull, unfocused, and they almost seemed darker. Almost black. 

John knew better than to suddenly demand to know where he had been. Sherlock wouldn’t answer and it would mostly certainly make things worse. So it was with caution that John approached Sherlock. He pretended to ignore all the things that were out place. “ Hi, Sherlock” He said with more pleasantness than he felt. “I’m glad you’re home”

Sherlock stared straight ahead for several seconds, unfocused before he looked in John’s general direction. Eventually, after what seemed like 2 or 3 full minuets, Sherlock’s eyes finally met John; not his eyes but John in general. “Hello” he said. His voice sounded hollow and empty. 

“How was the case?” John asked distantly. He hated dancing around the subject but he doubted he was going to get anything out Sherlock right now anyway. 

And about that he seemed to be right. Sherlock stood staring at in John’s direction but not looking at him. He didn’t speak and John noticed with alarm that Sherlock’s hand was shaking slightly. 

“Did you catch the killer?” John asked, managing to hide most of the tremor in his voice. There was only a slight crack at the end that Sherlock would normally have picked up on but didn’t this time. 

Sherlock stared down at the floor as he idly played with the button his coat. “Yes….yes I caught him.” He said distantly. His eyes clouded with confusion. 

“Want to tell me about it?” John asked; he managed to make his voice sound uninterested but really he was dying to know what had happened. 

“No….” Sherlock said. He walked over to his chair and sat down, staring into the fire. John didn’t know where to go from here. Sherlock was so….quiet, it wasn’t natural. Sherlock never missed the opportunity to explain, yes even brag, about his success on a case. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about it explained volumes to John. 

John sat down in his chair across from Sherlock, looking deliberately into the fire but watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock was pale and sweat was collecting on his forehead and yet he kept his coat on. “You feeling okay?” John asked. He kept it neutral sounding so Sherlock wouldn’t suspect how worried John was becoming at how he was acting. 

“Yes, I’m fine” Sherlock said staring into the fire. John got up and went to help Sherlock off with his coat. “Here, you’re clearly burning up, lets gets this off you” he said as he began to pull his coat off. 

Sherlock’s reaction was totally uncalled for; he whipped around and smacked John’s hand, pulling his coat tight around him. “Get off!” Sherlock hissed at John, hunching down into his coat. 

“Okay, fine, just trying to help” John said worriedly as he pulled back and sat down in his chair. Sherlock hunched down, putting his arms on his knees and staring into the fire. 

That was the beginning of John’s worry for Sherlock. But it wasn’t even close to the end of it. 

Over the next couple of weeks Sherlock’s behavior has grown more and erratic. He rarely spoke; while Sherlock had had silent spells that might last for a few days at a time, this was different. It lasted too long; and while Sherlock wasn’t entirely silent, he was more distant than he was when he had his usual quiet spells. He spoke only when John spoke to him and it was hardly ever in complete sentences. He became increasingly angry, lashing out at John, cursing often and yelling which was very unlike Sherlock. 

John’s first notice of Sherlock’s messy appearance when he entered the flat that first day seemed to be quite the opposite of his new personality; Sherlock began to take an obsessive interest in cleanliness and grooming. John noticed he would often take two showers a day which lasted much longer than his usual showers. He would also wash his hands excessively; John would often pass the bathroom and Sherlock would be hunched over the sink scrubbing his hands. When John walked in one day to see Sherlock scrubbing his, cracked and bleeding hands. When he had tried to get Sherlock to stop, Sherlock had muttered curses at him until he left him alone. And, contrast to Sherlock’s endless need to clean himself, his clothes continued to get dirtier and messier looking. It was confusing to John. 

Sherlock had also begun to develop nervous ticks like the nail biting. John would often notice Sherlock biting his nails; at first it was just when they were alone in the flat but then he began to do it more, in public which to John seemed….wrong. It was a ‘nervous’ habit; for Sherlock to be showing people this seemed wrong to him. John would also notice Sherlock pulling at his hair when he would be frustrated about something….which seemed to be a lot lately. He didn’t pull any hair out….most of the time. Usually he just pulled at it. 

John was becoming worried, but he didn’t want to push Sherlock by talking about it. Sherlock was still doing his work, still going to crime scenes, even if he was a lot quieter about it these days. So, John tried to leave it alone. 

But on this particular night, John knew something was wrong. Looking back on it, he would say that he was sensing danger. But at the time he just knew that Sherlock was acting weird. Looking back, he would say that he should have done something. But at the time he didn’t and now Sherlock was in jail for what had happened. For what John could have prevented.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Warning: Blood/ violence

The cab finally came to rest outside a block of flats. There was police tape around an area of the sidewalk and several police cars and forensics people around the area. “Well, I guess that this is it” John said as he began to climb out of the cab. When he turned around he saw that Sherlock was not out of the car. He ducked his head back inside the cab and his alarm took on new levels when he saw Sherlock hunched down, arms on his knees staring at the floor of the cab as he muttered to himself. No, talking to himself wasn’t even really the correct term for it; rather, he was talking to someone that wasn’t there. John couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he would mutter to himself for a moment, gesturing to someone that wasn’t there, pause and then resume speaking. He had a dark look in his eye and he would twitch every so often. 

“Sherlock?” John asked cautiously. 

“What?!” Sherlock asked angrily, turning towards John as if he had interrupted someone. “What do you want?” 

“Uh….the crime scene” John said as he gestured toward the forensics tape. “We’re here. But maybe we should just leave….”

“Why would we?” Sherlock asked as if was John stupid, sighing heavily as he got out of the car. He took off quickly and Lestrade was already briefing Sherlock on the case by the time that he caught up with him. “We’re running the names off the IDs but we don’t know a whole lot about the victims yet. They were found like by another tenant 20 minutes ago just as they are. No witnesses have been found” Greg was saying to Sherlock as he walked up. 

There were two bodies lying on the ground, two men who had obvious deep wounds to their chest. The first body had several stab wounds while the second had only two, with a knife still plunged into the area where the victim’s heart should be. John was just beginning to make generalizations about how this suggested either extreme stupidity on the part of the killer or the fact that they got interrupted when he noticed Sherlock crouching down to study the victim. Sherlock was looking at the victim who still had the knife protruding from his heart, so John began to look over the other victim.

The man was young, twenty at the most, skinny but in shape, not the type that should have gone down without a fight, especially with a friend. He had stab wounds to the left shoulder and three to the chest on near the ribs on the left and right side. Blood was pooling around the victim, suggesting he had fallen back and had not been moved. 

John had made all of these assumptions in a matter of less than a minute; he looked over at Sherlock, “So, what do you notice?” he asked offhand. 

John regretted it the second that he asked. He looked over to see Sherlock hunched over the body, pale and sweaty, hands shaking as he stared at the victim with a confused expression on his face. He was breathing heavy, short breaths almost as if he was going to hyperventilate. 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” John asked. 

Sherlock didn’t answer and John wasn’t surprised; he was in his own head. He was staring at the body as if completely lost, his breathing getting faster and faster. 

“Sherlock….” John said quietly as he reached out and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  
Big mistake. 

Sherlock put his hands over his the back of his head, pulling at his hair as he began to rock back and forth. His breathing was almost wheezy now and John noticed people were being to stare. 

“Hey, Sherlock, calm down” John whispered to the detective but it was no use. Sherlock was completely unresponsive; he began to mutter to himself again as he had in the car and John was trying to figure out the best way to get Sherlock out of here but since Sherlock wouldn’t even let him touch him he was wasn’t sure how he was to drag him towards the cab. 

John was beginning to become alarmed at the amount of attention that Sherlock was getting. It seemed that most people had stopped what they were doing and were now openly staring at Sherlock. Sally was making open jokes to Anderson and the two were laughing. John felt anger rising in him; everyone was looking at Sherlock like he was a freak and he was sure that that’s what they thought he was. But John knew that wasn’t true; something had happened to his friend that had damaged him deeply and John resented anyone who was trying to add to the pain that Sherlock already felt. 

Sally was not far from Sherlock and John could hear what she was saying. “ Always knew he was a freak….now he’s finally proving it. Need to put him in the loony bin with the rest of the nutters” 

“Why don’t you just shut the hell up Sally?” John asked angrily, crouching down close to Sherlock, as close as he could be without touching him. Sherlock’s eyes were clenched shut as if he was trying to prevent seeing something that was painful and his hands were clenched over his ears but John was sure that he could hear what was going on. His lips were moving as if talking but John could no longer hear anything coming from his mouth. 

“Really John you should keep a leash on him, get him out here” Sally sneered as Anderson laughed. 

“Shut up!” John shouted at Sally. He turned toward Sherlock. “Sherlock, don’t listen to them. Come on, let’s just leave….come on” he prodded. But Sherlock was gone. 

His breathing getting heavier, his rocking getting faster, muttering under his breath…..it kept getting worse as Sally continued her taunts and people stared and whispered. It was horrible; John felt powerless. Sherlock wouldn’t move, wouldn’t let him touch him, didn’t appear to hear hm. 

John just sat and watched him, eyes clenched closed away from the world. And then it happened…..

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and John could see instantly that Sherlock was gone. His eyes were dark, clouded, anger filling his face as he scowled. What happened next was so quick that John wasn’t even sure he could remember the events correctly. 

In a second, Sherlock pulled the knife from the body in front of him, whipping around as he shot up and lunged at Sally. John couldn’t even see what had happened as Sherlock grabbed Sally and his view was blocked by Sherlock’s body, until Sally fell back, three large stab wounds to her chest, bleeding profusely. She made a horrible screaming, gasping noise as she fell back onto the pavement, her blood quickly becoming a puddle around her body. John was stunned and felt all the air be sucked out of his lungs as he watched her gasping. John didn’t even have time to process what had happened and think how to act before Sherlock ran at Anderson. He grabbed Anderson roughly by the arm and he stabbed Anderson on the shoulder, blood spraying out of the deep wound. Anderson grabbed Sherlock with his other arm, trying to fight back, despite the wound that was causing him to slowly lose his strength. His fight seemed to anger Sherlock even further as he made a low, almost animalistic sound as he bent Anderson’s arm back as he smashed his head into Anderson’s. He fell back, hitting his head on the stoop of the flat, making a sickly cracking sound as he crumpled to the ground like a rag doll. 

At this point, everyone else in the vicinity had begun to panic; people were running in the other direction, screaming, yelling at Sherlock to stop. John was frozen; he couldn’t believe that what he was seeing was real. He knew he should move but his legs wouldn’t obey their command to move. 

John watched as two of the men from the forensics team lunged at Sherlock in an effort to stop him. They each grabbed one of his arms and pinned him against the side of the building, trying to pull the knife from his hand. But Sherlock wasn’t going down; he screamed out angrily, the darkness in his eyes smoldering, hurting John to look at. He pushed against the two men with surprising force pushing them back and getting free. He slashed at the face of the first man that went back to stop him; he screamed in pain as he fell back, clutching his face. The second man tried to come around Sherlock’s back side but Sherlock saw that coming as well; Sherlock whipped around, grabbing the man’s arm, twisting it back until it made a horrible cracking sound and he screamed. Sherlock whipped around and stabbed him in the chest before throwing him back. 

John’s mouth hung open and he didn’t know how long it had been since he had breathed. His lungs burned and he felt horror as he took in the bodies that littered the ground. The screaming, the blood….and Sherlock had done it. Sherlock. 

“Sherlock! Stop!” John called out as his body finally regained the ability to move. He ran toward Sherlock. Up close, John had to admit that he felt fear. Sherlock looked scary, not himself. His eyes were black and angry, his face contorted in a mask of rage. Blood spattered his clothes and face from his victims. He looked down at John but there was no recognition there. It was like he didn’t even know who John was…..or who anyone else was. 

“Sherlock, you have to stop” John begged. He looked up at the face of his flat mate, hoping for something, anything. He didn’t touch him or grab him for fear of setting him off. “I know you’re in there somewhere Sherlock” 

Sherlock stopped and looked at John; not like he knew him, but he did stop and look. He still had the hate filled eyes and expression but John still hoped that Sherlock was connecting to him in some way. He was so busy looking into his eyes that he was still looking into Sherlock’s eyes when he felt a sharp pain flash through his shoulder and Sherlock pushed past him. John fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder in shock, pain, anguish. He let himself fall completely to the ground but turned so that he could see Sherlock run off. John put his hand to his shoulder as blood gushed freely through his fingers. He stabbed me; how could he? All manner of hurtful thoughts and feelings passed through him in the one second that he let himself think about what had happened. 

A second later his thoughts were only on Sherlock and what he was going through; as Sherlock took off, away from the others this time, he was followed by least five or six of the forensics team. John felt a muffled scream in his throat as he watched the men come up behind Sherlock and tackle him to the ground. As Sherlock hit the pavement he cried out in pain which turned quickly into a scream as the men wrestled the knife out of his hand. 

John’s vision was getting hazy as he watched the men holding Sherlock down, Lestrade rushing up to the group. John was horrified as he saw Lestrade putting handcuffs on Sherlock. No, this was a mistake…..

John tried to speak but nothing came out. He was aware that his shirt was very wet with blood as his vision blurred altogether and he felt himself drift off to unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

John was surprised as the cab came to halt. He looked out the window and saw 221B; oddly, he didn’t remember any of the trip here. He was in a daze as he pulled out his wallet, his shoulder protesting, to pay the cabby. John thrust some money at the cabby, not caring if he was due any change as he climbed out of the cab. The street was silent; it was late night and very few cars passed on the road. The full moon and the stars shone brightly in the sky; how could things seem so normal when so much was wrong with the world? Didn’t the earth know terrible things had occurred? It should stop….he knew that he felt like he had stopped. 

John unlocked the door of the flat and walked in quietly. He made sure not to make noise; he didn’t want to wake Mrs. Hudson at this hour and have to explain. He would have to explain eventually and he didn’t relish the idea of that, but he didn’t want to do it now. So he tiptoed quietly towards the stairs and walked gingerly up them. He walked into the sitting room, turning on a lamp to open up the oppressive darkness that was taking over. When the light came on, John still felt the same amount of darkness crushing his chest; he ran around the flat turning on every light that he could find but he still felt darkness, sadness, crushing him from the inside out. John turned around, looking at all the light and listening to the crushing quiet. John turned the telly on but it still felt just as quiet as before he had turned it on. 

John walked to his bedroom, leaving all the lights on and the telly on. John felt so tired, emotionally and physically but he knew that sleep would be impossible. John threw off his shoes, trousers and jacket; feeling too lazy to care about pajamas John crawled under his covers in his t-shirt and pants. He lay on his back, the only comfortable position he could manage with his shoulder and stared at the ceiling. He focused his eyes on the shadow the lamp cast across the ceiling, listing to the faint sound of the telly in living room. John pulled the cover up to his chin, clutching it in his hands so tightly in his knuckles that they turned white. His chest felt heavy as if he needed to cry, but when he tried, nothing came out. 

Sherlock’s absence was oppressive. It shouldn’t be quiet; Sherlock should be here, criticizing the telly, blowing up something in the kitchen or nagging him. But he wasn’t…. John felt emotion well up inside him when he thought about where Sherlock actually was. Jail…..Sherlock was being considered a criminal and he was spending the night in a cell. What if he was scared? What if he was confused? John wanted nothing more than to be with him. 

John remembered Lestrade’s anger with him at the hospital; he seemed to think John should be angry at Sherlock. And maybe he should…..some part of his mind told him that yes, he should be angry, scared even, of Sherlock. Part of his mind told him that Sherlock had brutally attacked five people, including him, with no sign of remorse whatsoever. Part of him screamed that worrying about Sherlock scared in a jail cell was ridiculous. 

But John couldn’t help it. He couldn’t be mad at Sherlock; deep down he knew, even if no one else did, that this was not Sherlock’s fault. No one else had seen how Sherlock had been acting these past few weeks. No one else had seen the way that he had looked when he had come back from his case. John knew that something was wrong. Sherlock was not a psychopath; something had caused him to snap. He would never have done this under normal circumstances. 

So John lay in bed and did what he did best; he worried about Sherlock. He lay unmoving for hours, reliving the awful event in his mind over and over again. Guilt crushing him for not doing something sooner, worry pressing on him as he wondered what was happening to Sherlock. 

John turned over to his night table and grabbed his mobile. He knew that Sherlock most likely didn’t have his, and even if he did he was most likely not in a state to talk or even think about John. But on the off chance that he did, John had to reach out to him. It was all that he could do. 

Sherlock, I hope you are okay. I don’t know what happened tonight, but I know that this isn’t you. I don’t know what will happen with the police, or even if you are okay. But no matter what is going on, I want you to know that I believe in you. I know that something made you do this….I know you wouldn’t do this otherwise. I miss you….the flat is too quiet without you.- JW

John sent the text out into the abyss, never to been seen before tossing his mobile across the bed and rolling over. Sometime, hours later, by some miracle, John fell asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

John jerked awake the next morning and felt his whole body shaking in shivers. The cover was pulled up to his chin but his clothes felt slightly damp, as if he had sweated at some point in the night. It was making the shivering worse but John avoided taking his clothes off; such an action would not only force him out of the covers and make him temporarily colder, but it would also force him to move, to do something and that wasn’t something that he was sure he could do. Despite just waking, he felt drained and he lay on the bed for a long time, staring up at the ceiling. 

He wished that he could forget about the previous day, even if just for a few moments, but his mind was not that forgiving. His thoughts were immediately brought to the events of yesterday and he closed his eyes. Even if his mind had been that forgiving, there was no way that his surroundings wouldn’t have reminded him; the lights that were all blaring on despite the morning sun that was now pouring into his room, the distant sound of the telly in the sitting room, the burning, searing pain in his shoulder. John pulled the covers up even further on his head, determined to burrow into a dark place and forget this ever happened. But it wasn’t that easy, he knew. He couldn’t even forget about it for one second, much less forget it completely. 

John pulled his head out of the covers after a long time, squinting against the sunshine that was annoyingly permeating the room. He reached across the bed, looking for his discarded mobile. Finding it tangled in the sheets, he checked for messages and missed calls but he saw nothing. He felt his hope deflate in his chest like a balloon; he knew that Sherlock was not going to be trying to contact him, but he had hoped that Lestrade would have told him something by now. Surely he had to know something. He steadied his shaking hands to text Greg:

Please let me know what you know about Sherlock. Tell me what’s going on with him, I need to know- JW

John pulled the mobile under the covers with him, burrowed again. After a long time passed, Greg still hadn’t messaged back. Feeling impatient, John texted again:

Let me know something, please. I need to know if Sherlock’s okay-JW

John put the mobile down again and closed his eyes; he felt so tired and he was hoping that he could go to sleep once more. But he wasn’t that fortunate; despite his heavy eyes they wouldn’t stay shut and his eyes kept focusing on his quiet mobile. 

 

John texted Greg a third time: Call or text, something, anything- JW . John knew that he was probably coming off as desperate but he didn’t care. He was desperate. His stomach was in knots and he couldn’t stop thinking about what could be happening to Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock had snapped out of his episode by now and was horrified by what he had done? Maybe Sherlock was acting worse than ever and still trying to attack people? Maybe they were questioning him? Maybe he was in a cell with criminals, where he didn’t belong. Only, some would say that he did belong there because he was a criminal. John wasn’t one of those people. 

Eventually John’s body forced him out of his warm cocoon of blankets and to the toilet. He grabbed a pair of pyjama pants and put them on, trying to break the chill that he felt. He went to the toilet, stopping when he passed by the mirror in the bathroom; he looked rather ghastly. His eyes had deep circles and he looked paler than normal; he looked almost as bad as he felt. Deciding he might as well look at all the damage at once he pulled back the bandage on his shoulder so he could change it to a fresh one. Looking at the cut in the light of day made it seem worse. Several stiches? John couldn’t remember there being that many. Why had there been? It had been just a flesh wound right? Judging by the stiches and the amount of swelling around the wound, it would appear not. It actually looked kind of serious. John quickly cleaned it and put another bandage over it, not wanting to think about it any longer. 

John wandered into the kitchen and began a kettle to boil for tea. He looked in the refrigerator, hoping something would look appealing and he might want to eat. But there weren’t many options to begin with and everything that he saw made him feel nauseated. He knew that he should eat something but he wasn’t going to force it. By the time that his tea was done, he didn’t even want that but he took it to the sitting room anyway. He flopped heavily on the sofa, staring blankly at the telly screen. He sipped his tea slowly and watched mindless programs for half the morning before he finally heard his mobile ring. John’s fingers jumbled as he reached for his phone so quickly, feeling panic that he wouldn’t get to it in time. 

“Hello?” He said eagerly- a little too eagerly- as he answered the call. 

He was relieved when he heard Lestrade’s voice on the other end. “Hello John” he said tiredly. It sounded like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all; he very likely hadn’t. 

“So, uh….what’s the news? What’s going on?” John asked. He had to know but he was afraid of the answer. 

Lestrade was silent for a while before he answered. “He’s not doing very well, John” he said. “They took him in for questioning last night but they couldn’t get a single word out of him. He continued to be combative and was actively trying to lash out at everyone around him. He hasn’t spoken, not a single word since this whole thing started.” John heard him sigh deeply. “It’s obvious that he’s having mental issues, no one is denying that. But no one is whiling to blame it entirely on that either yet….” Another long sigh and pause. “They’ve moved him to an institution for the criminally insane” 

John’s stomach dropped to his feet; his grip on the phone slacked so much that he almost dropped his phone. He tightened his grip just in time to keep it from falling to the ground. Criminally insane…..It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. It was a horrible thing to think about. Sherlock….insane? Sherlock might actually be out of his mind. John wanted to throw up; what might have happened if he’d tried to help Sherlock when he first came back from the case gone wrong? Would he be in this situation? John was almost sure he wouldn’t be. 

“Can I….go visit him? There….” John asked. He hated that his voice sounded so weak, unsure and scared. 

“No” Lestrade’s answer was quick. His tone was softer when he spoke again. “John, I don’t think you realize the severity of this situation. Sherlock hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even acknowledged anyone except to attack them. Most likely if you visited him he would come at you again.” John pictured it his mind, Sherlock lunging at him again, that evil dark glean that he had had when he had attacked him the first time. He felt a chill pass through his body. 

“Besides, John, no one is allowed to see him right now, including me” Lestrade said. “The doctors ordered that Sherlock be under care for at least a week before they even consider letting anyone question him again. He’s sick, John. Very sick. Right now you just need to let them do their job” 

John’s mouth felt dry; he couldn’t see Sherlock for at least a week. Maybe longer. And even then, who knew what kind of state he’d be in? “I should have done something….when he came back” John said, feeling emotion rise in his chest like a wave he couldn’t stop. 

John hadn’t really meant to say it; he wasn’t expecting Greg to say anything. But he did. “John this isn’t your fault, you have to know that” he said. 

But John didn’t know that; Sherlock didn’t have anyone to stand up for him or be there for him. John was all he had and John should have intervened. “I just wish I’d have done something, to help him” John said idly before changing the subject. “I know that Sherlock’s report on the case was straightforward and there was nothing out of the ordinary, but do you think you could look into a little more? There’s got to be something there” He hoped. 

But John could tell in Greg’s tone that he thought that it was a lost cause. “Sure, John. I’ll see what I can do. Take care of yourself” 

“Okay” John said dejectedly as he hung up the phone.   
…..

It was one of the longest weeks of John’s life which was saying a lot considering how hellish some of his weeks during medical school and army training had been. It was agonizing having to wait around with nothing to do and no one to occupy his time. With Sherlock not around there wasn’t even any work to do which made it even worse; he couldn’t even bury his thoughts in work. He’d spent an ungodly amount of hours watching telly and sleeping. He’d went out with Stamford a few times; even though he knew that something was wrong, he didn’t push John to share and John didn’t give him an explanation. 

John had had several meals with Mrs. Hudson over the week, desperate for human contact. The day after he had talked to Greg about Sherlock, John had told Mrs. Hudson what had happened with Sherlock, though he had tried to tone it down so as not to scare her too much. He didn’t think he’d done a good job because she had still cried when he told her. After that initial conversation, they hadn’t discussed Sherlock anymore; they discussed just about everything else in an effort to avoid him. 

Eight days after John had spoken to Lestrade about Sherlock, he finally broke down and called him again. He’d been mindlessly sitting and watching telly all day, hoping for even a mild distraction. But John had hoped to have heard from Lestrade by now; the fact that he hadn’t made John worry. 

John listened as Lestrade’s phone rang several times; he was sure that he wasn’t going to answer. On the last ring he finally heard Greg’s strained voice on the other end. “Hello John” 

“Hi Greg” John said hesitantly. He paused for a second, but knowing that it wouldn’t do any good beating around the bush, he launched in on the conversation. “ How is he? Can I see him?” 

Greg was silent for so long that John thought for a while that he had hung up. “I was just there John, trying to question him again and….I hate to say it but…..he’s just as bad as he was a week ago. He is still violent; they’ve have to restrain him and he still won’t talk to anyone. Nothing, not at all. The staff hasn’t been able to get him to talk at all. I tried to talk to him and he just…..” Lestrade paused. “He’s not ready yet” 

John felt his stomach twist uncomfortably as his spirits fell. Sherlock was still silent, still violent…..they’d had to restrain him. John’s stomach flip flopped painfully when he thought about Sherlock in a padded room somewhere alone. He wasn’t any better….what if he wasn’t going to get better? 

“But he’s allowed to have visitors, right?” John asked. 

Lestrade hesitated. “Technically yes” he said finally. 

“Well, then I’m going to go see him” John said, his voice strong but inside he felt weak. 

“I really wouldn’t do that, John” Lestrade said was some trepidation. 

“Why not?” John asked. He knew that Sherlock might not talk and might not even remember him now but something was pushing him to see him. The flat was so quiet, it was too clean, to orderly…..too lonely. As much as he hated to admit, he needed to see Sherlock a lot more than Sherlock needed to see him. 

“John, you don’t want to see him like this” Lestrade said with certainty. “Give him more time to heal, more time with the doctors.” It seemed that Lestrade could sense that he wasn’t going to listen because he added, “ Just think about it” 

“Yeah, okay” John said quietly before hanging up. He laid the mobile down and leaned against the sofa, running his hands through his hair. He paused for about three seconds before getting up to change his clothes.   
……

The ride in the cab seemed to take forever. John jiggled his leg and tapped his fingers against his knee as he sat in the backseat and stared out the window as the scenery became less city and more country. He couldn’t sit still and his stomach wouldn’t stay still either; he was suddenly glad that he hadn’t eaten anything this morning before leaving. He had hastily thrown on some clothes and ran a comb through his hair before dashing out the door. He was afraid if he had given himself more time to think about what he was doing, he might not have gone through with it. 

But now that he was thinking about it, he was getting more and more nervous. He felt like his feelings were torn in two. Part of him was desperately lonely and wanted to see Sherlock no matter what state he was in. The other part of him was scared to see Sherlock like he had been a week ago. Lestrade had expressed that Sherlock was still the same that he had been then; still as dangerous and still as not himself. He hoped that he didn’t regret the decision to come here. 

John tried to calm his mind as he looked out the window and watched the murkiness of London pass by and be replaced by rolling green hills and quieter surroundings. It seemed like forever that they drove along and John was both happy and nervous when he saw the asylum come into view. John was glad that it didn’t look like he expected; he had in his mind a very drab, grey, austere looking building that bled out despair and hopelessness, surrounded by high pointy fences to keep the dangerous occupants in. He was relived instead to see a small, almost quaint red brick building with lots of windows and a perfectly manicured lawn. It did have a fence surrounding it, but it looked like it fit with the look of the place, rather than looking like it was just there to keep people in. 

The cab stopped outside the fence and paused while the doors opened. When they did it proceeded to stop right in front of the tall black wooden doors. John felt his stomach continue to dance but he paid the fare quickly and got out of the cab.   
John paused outside the door, his palms sweating and his heart racing. He put his hand to the door and opened it quickly, before he had time to change his mind.


	6. Chapter 6

John walked into the asylum’s foyer and looked around; it didn’t seem as opposing as he would have thought. There was a small waiting area with neutral toned couches and chairs to the right, with fake plants placed at different areas around the room. On his left was the front desk and John hesitantly made his way over to it. 

“Hello, can I help you?” the plump middle aged receptionist asked, looking up from her computer screen. 

“Uh….yeah” John said, feeling his nervousness begin to make his mouth dry and sticky. “I’m here to see my friend. Sherlock Holmes” 

John saw the woman’s face drop instantly. It was just there for a second before she replaced the look with her fake pleasant smile, but John still saw it. “Okay, I’ll call the nurse on that floor and she should be able to escort you up there” she said before picking up the phone and dialing a few buttons. John could only guess the reputation that Sherlock had already gained here if even the front receptionist knew him just by name. 

It felt like an uncomfortable eternity that John stood and waited for the nurse to come and retrieve him. Finally, a young blonde woman came around the corner and greeted him. “Sir, are you here for Sherlock?” she asked. John credited his worked with Sherlock that he could sense in her features that she was nervous about taking him up even though she hid it well. 

“Yes, that’s me “John said, faking a smile. He followed her toward the lift and stood next to her as she punched the number 3 on the controls. John felt suddenly very hot and he pulled at his coat trying to gain some air. The walls of the lift seemed to be closing in on him and he was relieved when it opened and he could tumble out. 

The nurse led him down a beige and white bland hallway; John couldn’t help but notice that all of the doors were closed and that no one else was around. It was eerily quiet and John couldn’t help but think that this was a bad sign. 

The nurse paused outside the last door on the end of the hallway. “I’m not sure what they told you sir, about Mr. Holmes’ condition” she said with some hesitation. 

John felt like he was going to be sick; the caution in the woman’s eyes made John scared of what he was going to find behind the door. “I’ve been told that he is still rather combative and that he doesn’t remember anyone yet” John said, a slight tremble in his voice. 

“Yes, he is still very violent, that’s why he’s here in the solitary unit of the hospital” The nurse said hesitantly. “Would you like to speak with his doctor first? I think he’s doing his rounds on this floor somewhere” 

John knew that if he had to wait on the doctor he would change his mind and leave which he didn’t want to do. “No, that’s okay. I don’t need to stay long. I just…..want to see him” 

The nurse gave him a sympathetic look that told of her sorrow at what John was about to see and also held a small hint of the knowing look most people gave him right before they made an assumption that he and Sherlock were a couple. She opened the door and John stepped in. He expected to see Sherlock at once but was more surprised to see a bare white room that contained a table and two chairs but little else. There was a door and a small, long window on the opposite wall and John felt his stomach give a heave but he ignored it. 

“He’s right on the other side” the nurse said pleasantly. “Right now we’re just allowing people to speak to him through the window, so if you’d like to speak to him come over here.” 

John’s feet felt like they were stuck in molasses as he moved forward slowly, his whole body beginning to sweat bullets and making him feel uncomfortably hot. He followed the nurse to the window and instantly he saw why Greg has insisted that John didn’t want to see Sherlock right now. And he wished that he had heeded his advice. 

If John didn’t know that the man before him was Sherlock, he would have said that there was no way it could have been him. Sherlock’s room was bare and empty except for a white, plain bed he sat on. John was horrified to see Sherlock was in a strait jacket; tears immediately went to his eyes but he forced them inside. Sherlock’s face was covered in deep red scratches and John could only assume that since coming here he had become self-violent as well; no wonder he had the straight jacket on. Sherlock’s hair looked thin and John wondered if the stress was causing it to fall out. His skin was deathly pale and hung on him unnaturally; while Sherlock had always been too thin he now looked anorexic. 

John knew this had been a mistake, that he’d never be able to sleep tonight. But it was too late for regrets now. He did the only thing that made any sense. “Sherlock?” he called out. 

Sherlock had been sitting on the bed, staring at his feet, not seeming to notice John. When John spoke, Sherlock looked up. He stared at John but no recognition, no emotion crossed his face. But he did look at him and John considered that to be something of meaning. “Sherlock? Hi” John called out and gave Sherlock a small wave. Sherlock stared at him with a completely blank look on his face for a few minutes before he leapt off the bed and ran at the window. He ran quickly, not making any move to stop; when he got to the window, he beat his head against it roughly. John took a step back, completely unprepared; Sherlock kept running and making motions for the window but with his arms restrained he couldn’t do much except for beat his head against the window, which he did repeatedly. When he stopped long enough to look at John, what John saw terrified him. Sherlock seemed almost like an animal; his eyes were bloodshot and dark, with deep circles around them as if he hadn’t slept in days, his face was white as a sheet except for the horrible red scratches and it was scrunched into a mask of anger. His mouth was contorted in a snarl as he tried to get through the glass at John. John could only imagine what he would do if he could get through the glass. 

John backed up from the glass and stood stunned for a second before taking off out of the small room. He had made his way half way through the hallway when the nurse called out behind him. “Sir, wait!” 

John thought about running, just keep going and not looking back, but he stopped and turned around to the face the nurse even though he felt like he was going to be sick. “What?” he asked. It didn’t come out entirely rude but it didn’t come out friendly either. 

“I really think you speak to the doctor” she said with a worried expression.

“No” John said. He swallowed down the bile in his throat and put on his best version of a normal expression. “ Really, I’ll just come back later when he’s…..doing better” 

“I know that it must be difficult to see him like that” the nurse said. “It’s not just you, its everyone he’s been acting that way around.” 

But I’m not everyone else…..I’m his flat mate, his partner….his friend. John thought bitterly, He should member me. John blinked back the tears that wanted escape from his eyes. “I just hope you guys can help him” John said before taking off down the hallway. He had no idea what else to say and he desperately needed out of this awful place, this place that held no hope, only the promise of more pain. 

……  
2 months ago.....

Sherlock’s hands shook as he unlocked the door of his hotel room. The second that the door opened, he practically fell onto the floor. He tripped, stumbled onto the floor, the pain and panic overtaking him. He closed his eyes as his hands shook and a tremor of a shiver ran through his body. Sherlock crumpled and allowed a few muffled sobs to escape his throat; he felt bile rising in him but he didn’t vomit. 

Sherlock dragged himself to the bed and fell down on it, pain crossing through his body. He pulled his legs up to his chest and buried his face in his coat. He tried to block out the pain, to ignore the pain as he had so often done in the past but the pain was too recent to ignore it. The physical symptoms were enough to make him collapse into a heap but coupled with the emotional pain….it was too much to bear. He heard his phone vibrate and knew without even looking that it would be John. The thought of John made it easy for Sherlock to cry; he desperately wanted to talk to John. John was strong, he protected him, helped him….he wanted to tell John what had happened and have him fix it. But he couldn’t do that. He could never tell John. He couldn’t tell anyone. Not ever. 

Sherlock pulled out his mobile and listened to the voice mail. “Hey Sherlock, it’s me….John, again. Listen. I haven’t heard anything from you and I just wanted to check on you. Please give me a call. I want to make sure you’re okay.” 

Sherlock clutched the mobile to his ear, tears rolling down his face. He listened to the message three times, desperate to hear John’s voice. How much he wanted to hear John’s voice, to talk to him. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut as the images of what had just happened flashed through his mind. His face burned as shame coursed through him; John would be ashamed of him. He was ashamed of himself. 

Sherlock held onto his mobile and cried for a long while. He wiped his tears on the collar of his coat and got off the bed. He checked the door of the room to make sure it was locked, checking it once, twice, three time times before he went into the bathroom. He longed for home, the comfortableness of his own flat, the safeness. But he knew that he had to get cleaned up and calmed down before he could even consider going home. He turned the water of the shower on as hot as he could stand it and stripped his clothes off. When he saw his clothes in a pile on the floor, saw the blood, he felt his stomach lurch and just made it to the toilet before he vomited. He hung onto the toilet, stomach rolling, crumpling when he finally has nothing left in his stomach to come up. Sherlock stumbled into the shower but he didn’t have the strength to stand; he sat in the shower and let the water fall over him. He pulled his legs up and put his arms around them, clutching on for dear life. He was shaking uncontrollably and he wasn’t sure how much was from the drugs and how much was from fear. Crippling, unimaginable fear. Familiar fear.


	7. Chapter 7

John felt proud of himself that he didn’t lose it in the cab; he wasn’t sure how he had done it but he was glad he hadn’t become a sobbing mess in front of the cabbie. It was raining now and John watched it out the window without really seeing it. He felt weary and he couldn’t even begin to process what he had seen. He didn’t want to begin to process it; not until he was alone. 

John was glad when the cab made its way back to 221b. He tried to walk quietly up the stairs, but Mrs. Hudson was waiting for him. “John, you’re back awfully soon” he heard Mrs. Hudson’s voice say worriedly behind him. 

John really didn’t want to talk to her, to have to talk about what he’d seen. But he couldn’t be rude either. He turned toward his landlady who was standing in her doorway, clutching a dish towel and spoon as if she had been interrupted during cooking. Worry was clearly written on her face. “Sherlock’s not ready for visitors” John said flatly. 

“You didn’t go to the hospital?” the way that she said hospital it was obvious that she was deliberately avoiding calling it an asylum. 

“I did…..” John started but his voice cracked. He hated that his voice was betraying him. 

Mrs. Hudson seemed to read between in the lines in the motherly way that she always did. “Come in have some tea John” she prodded. John went forward into her flat, wanting to be able to talk to her, but at the same time fearful he might not be able to hold it together. 

He followed Mrs. Hudson into her warm kitchen where the smell of baking biscuits filled the air; normally it would have been delightful but right now it made him want to vomit. He sat down at the kitchen table as Mrs. Hudson poured them some tea and took the seat opposite him. “So John, what happen?” she asked gently. 

John sipped his tea and looked down at the tablecloth. “It was horrible…..he’s completely gone Mrs. Hudson” he said, a tremor barley controlled in his voice. 

“He’s not any better then?” Mrs. Hudson asked gently. “He’s not talking?” 

John kept staring at the table to avoid Mrs. Hudson’s sympathetic eyes. “He hasn’t spoken since it happened. He wanted to…..” John put his hand to his eyes, pressing hard to avoid the tears. “He…..would have attacked me again if they hadn’t had him restrained.” 

Mrs. Hudson put her hand on John’s and he looked up at her, her eyes showing deep concern. “John, Sherlock’s had a very difficult life. I really think whatever has happened to him must have just been the last thing that he could take, pushed him over the edge. His mind is trying to cope with not only his new pain but all the pain that he’s ignored. You know what he’s like…..he never talks about nothing, buries it all in the big head of his. Eventually, that’ll catch up to you. And I think that is what must have happened to Sherlock” 

John stared down at Mrs. Hudson’s hand on his; she had a point, a good one. It made complete sense; Sherlock never faced his emotions or the pain he’d been through. He buried it so far down inside he never had to face it. Now it was coming to the surface, demanding to be seen and acknowledged. John didn’t know exactly what all Sherlock had been through in his life as Sherlock rarely talked about his past. But John knew that he hadn’t exactly had it easy. 

“I just wish there was something I could do” John said in despair, staring down into his tea cup. “What if….”

“John, don’t go there” Mrs. Hudson cautioned. “Sherlock is brilliant and stubborn….he’ll make his way home.”   
……

Over the next week, John tried to carry on as normally as he could but it wasn’t easy. John wasn’t aware of how much Sherlock had come to affect every part of his life until he was gone. He came to spend the majority of the time in the flat puttering around trying to find something to occupy his mind and time but it was difficult. He would have been ashamed to admit that he spent nearly all the time at home with either the radio or telly on; the silence alone was enough to remind him painfully that things were not as they should be. He had no work to do without Sherlock on a case and he didn’t speak to Lestrade; after he had spoken to him the day he’d went to the asylum he’d heard nothing. John didn’t call him; he figured if there was a change he would call him. 

A new, unpleasant change in his daily life was the reoccurrence of nightmares. John didn’t have regular nightmares now; he had had them in the days after he’d come back from Afghanistan in what he often referred to as his dark days. The days before Sherlock, before solving cases when he was alone and left with images from the war. He was plagued almost nightly with horrible nightmares. But after meeting Sherlock, those dreams had become less and less an issue. He still had them every once and awhile but not very often. But since the attack John had been plagued with nightmares; images of Sherlock coming at him with a knife, Sherlock running at him, his wild eyes from the asylum. He supposed that a psychologist would say that he was experiencing more PTSD but he hardly thought that the issue with Sherlock warranted such a strong reaction. Sherlock was, even after all this, his best friend and he refused to be afraid of him. 

John didn’t attempt to go back to the asylum for a week. As much as he wanted to see Sherlock, Lestrade had been right that he didn’t want to see him like that. It was too hard; the Sherlock he had seen had not been the one that he knew and that knowledge was too much for him to accept. It had been so painful the first time around he wasn’t keen on repeating it until he knew the something had changed. 

John waited a week to call Lestrade. He didn’t ask him about how Sherlock was doing; John knew that no news was bad news in this case. He called this time to try to get some details about the case Sherlock had been working on. He knew next to nothing about it and yet there had to be something that had set this whole thing in motion. 

John fiddled with a pen in his hand as he dialed Lestrade’s number with the other hand. After a few rings Greg picked up. “Hello?” he answered. John noticed that he sounded slightly better than he had a week ago and wondered if the fallout from Sherlock’s melt down was starting to calm down some. 

“Hi Greg, its John” John said pleasantly. He knee that Greg most likely didn’t want to talk to him; he was glad he answered at all. 

“”Hi John” Greg said. “How are you?” 

It was an awful question to ask, but a simple pleasantry so John simply said. “As good as can be expected” he paused before he launched into his main purpose. “Greg, you were going to try to dig up some info on the case Sherlock was on before he…..you know, his last case” John said awkwardly. “ Did you find anything.” 

Greg paused. “Not really John” he said. “Let me get the file” he paused and the sound of shuffling papers could be heard. “Okay, here it is….really it was an open and shut case. The murder victim was 34 year old Olivia Massie. She was an extremely wealthy woman; her husband owns a car dealership. She had a string of lovers and naturally most people thought the husband killed her. Jealousy and all that….but it wasn’t him. He had a rock solid alibi. He was unveiling a new car model at the time of her death. There were a hundred witnesses to prove that. Sherlock said from the get go it was a break in; the officers didn’t believe him at first because there was so little evidence but he was able to prove it in those little maddening details he does. You can look over the report if you want….but nothing strange was reported” 

“What about the officers he worked with? Did they say anything happened? Anything at all strange?” John asked, desperate for information. 

“No” Greg said. “ I interviewed the forensics team he worked with and they said that nothing bad or strange happened. Nothing of note. They all remarked that he was difficult to work with, but what’s new about that? They said he knocked heads with the DI there, but again, what’s new with that either?” 

John felt defeated that there was nothing of note but he didn’t want to give in yet. No one lost their mind so completely for no reason whatsoever. “Who was the DI?” John asked. 

“Garret Sydney” Greg said. “Been on the force there for 35 years. I’ve known him a long time. He’s a nice guy but stubborn. I’m not surprised he and Sherlock didn’t see eye to eye” 

“Can I phone him?” John asked. “Maybe he can shed some light on something no one else has covered.” 

“Sure” Greg said before giving John the phone number. His voice changed to slightly darker when he spoke again. “John, listen…..before you go digging too deep, you have to at least entertain the possibility that Sherlock got himself into some trouble.” 

“What?” John was confused. 

“John, when I asked Garret why Sherlock was helping with the case for so long, he told me that he was only there 5 days. When I checked with his hotel they said he stayed for 5 days and then never showed back up to check out” 

“What are you saying?” John asked, anger bubbling up in his chest. 

“John, Sherlock had a bit of a wild past, you know, the drugs and all” Greg said, sounding uncomfortable. “When I first met him it wasn’t uncommon for him to go off on his own for a while.” 

John was angry at the assumption that Sherlock had somehow done this to himself. The look in Sherlock’s eyes when he returned was enough to tell John that he was damaged, not on drugs. 

But John bit back his response; he wasn’t going to change Greg’s mind so he let it drop. “Thanks for the help” he said curtly before exchanging goodbyes. John hung up angrily and began to punch in the number for Garret Sydney that Greg had given him, praying he had some sort of answers for John. 

“Hello, DI Sydney” the man on the other end of the phone picked up pleasantly. 

“Hello, this is John Watson. I work for Greg Lestrade. Some of our people helped you on a case recently, especially Sherlock Holmes” John said. 

“Ah” The man said in recognition. “Yes, Sherlock. He was a big help in the Massie case. Well, what can I do for you Mr. Watson?” 

“John, please” John said. “Um….I’m Sherlock’s college and I was wondering if you could give me any information about you and him working together on the Massie case?” For some reason John didn’t feel comfortable about calling Sherlock his flat mate. He felt he’d get further if this man didn’t know they were friends. 

“Sure….” Garret said in a slightly confused tone. “What do you need to know?” 

“Well, shortly after Sherlock came back he…..” John thought about the best way to phrase it. “Had a bit of…..nervous breakdown. I’m trying to figure out as to why he might have” 

“Well, that’s awful” Garret said with slight horror. “ No, he was fine while he was here. He didn’t seem sick or anything” 

“Greg said that you two had some arguments” John said. 

Garret gave a small laugh. “Well, you know what he’s like right?” he asked. “ He butted heads with everyone here. Nothing serious though….I run my station a certain way and he didn’t like to be told what to do. But after the first day or so we got into a routine and things ran more or less smoothly the rest of the time he was here” 

John felt deflated. “Well, I appreciate the help Mr. Sydney” John said. 

“No problem, call if you need anything else” Garret said warmly before hanging up. 

John sat back on the couch and ran his fingers through his hair, frustration filling him. Six days…..six days where Sherlock fell off the face of the planet and when he came back to earth he was damaged. A thought nagged John in the back of his head that maybe Greg was right. Maybe Sherlock had run off, done drugs. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But then John saw in his mind Sherlock’s eyes, dark and empty when he’d come home; they spoke of trauma and pain. It had to be something else…..John just didn’t know what yet.


	8. Chapter 8

The next day John was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bland breakfast of plain toast and tea when his mobile rang. It’d been a long night where he hadn’t been able to sleep until late and even then his sleep was dotted with nightmares. He’d gotten up late and by the time he had breakfast it was almost noon. He picked up his mobile and he was surprised to see Greg’s number. 

He picked it up quickly and answered it. “Hello” he said pleasantly. 

“Hi John” Greg said. John was instantly aware that Greg’s voice was more tired and melancholy than yesterday. John braced himself for bad news. 

“What’s up?” John said, forcing his voice to be neutral. 

“I went to see him” Greg said. No explanation of who “he” was was needed. 

“How is?” John asked, though he was sure the question was unnecessary. 

Greg sighed. “He’s doing better” he said. “He’s stopped fighting so much….he’s much more coherent. I was actually able to talk to him.” 

John was surprised at this response. It wasn’t what he expected. “Did you talk to him about….what happened?” he asked. 

“I asked him, but he didn’t seem to know anything” Greg said. “He still has some memory loss.” 

“He didn’t remember any of it?” John asked in surprise. 

“He doesn’t seem to remember a lot of things that have happened recently” Greg said. “As far as I could tell when I questioned him he doesn’t remember anything that’s happened in the past three years”

John opened his mouth to ask a question, but it froze in his mouth as the realization came over him. Three years…..he didn’t remember anything that had happened since John had met him. They’d only known each other for the past year…..he would have no recollection of John at all. He didn’t want to ask but he knew that he had to. “So….he remembered you?” John asked, knowing Sherlock had known him for 6 years. 

“Yes, but his memory was impaired on recent memories” Greg said. He no doubt could guess John’s next question. 

“He doesn’t remember me” John said. It wasn’t a question but a statement. 

“No” Greg said heavily. Silence hung and Greg jumped in to fill it. “But John they are really positive about his progress. He has changed a lot in the two weeks he’s been there. They are positive he’ll make a full recovery” 

“Well, hopefully he does” John said bitterly. He didn’t think he could bear going to see him again. Not if Sherlock couldn’t even remember him. 

“You need to go see him” Greg said, sensing what he was thinking. “He won’t talk to the doctors and having a friend to talk to will really help him.” 

“I’m not his friend….not in his eyes” John said it before he could stop. It sounded pathetic. 

“Well, I can’t make you but I really think you should” Greg said. “But I think it would help jar his memory if you spoke with him.” 

“Sure” John said hollowly though he wasn’t sure if he would. He said goodbye and hung up. He sat back on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a long time, torn between wanting to see Sherlock and wanting to avoid the pain of seeing a Sherlock who wouldn’t know him. 

…..

Flashback:

Sherlock walked through the maze of desks in the station; it was bustling with activity, people running from desk to desk, phones ringing. Sherlock’s eyes darted around but he avoided making too many deductions about the multiple occupants of the office, preferring to keep his mind on the current case. He didn’t have all of the details yet, he wouldn’t until he met the DI but he still wanted to focus his attention on important matters. 

He’d been given very little details and when he arrived at the office the secretary pointed him to a door in the back of the office. He made his way quickly though the shuffle so that he could get on the case and get back to the familiarity of his own station and cases. 

Sherlock opened the thick wooden door of the DI’s office without hesitation and walked in. He might have been able to deduce many things about this case but he never could and never would have predicted what happened next. When he saw the man sitting at the desk, all of the air drained out of him immediately as his skin instantly went icy cold. He fell back towards the door in slight panic; the whole room seemed to move to close in on him as he struggled to keep his breathing and heart rate normal so as to avoid the panic attack he felt coming on. 

He was stunned into silence and it wasn’t surprising that DI Garret Sydney spoke first. He rose from his chair behind the desk and walked towards Sherlock, his broad smile not matching the inward panic that was quickly building within Sherlock. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?” Garret asked, smiling broadly as he closed in on Sherlock. Sherlock was struck by how little Garret had changed. His hair was silver now as opposed to the light brown it has once been and he was slightly heavier (he was too alarmed to deduce exactly how much) with a few laugh lines now on his face, but otherwise it was the same person Sherlock remembered. “ Sherlock, is that really you?” 

Sherlock was alarmed by how pleased Garret seemed to be see him. He was grinning at him like he was beyond delighted. Sherlock felt bile rise in his throat; for once, he felt himself unable to speak. 

“When they told me they were sending a detective to assist me, who would have guessed it would be you” Garret said happily as he looked over Sherlock. “Wow….how long it’s been? 20 years?” 

Garret stared back at Sherlock, waiting for him to say something but Sherlock didn’t trust himself enough to speak; Garret would notice the slightest tremor or stutter; Sherlock though about fleeing. But he didn’t do that either; not only was he frozen in place, he knew that to flee would cause unwanted questions. 

“Ah, come on Sherlock, what’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” Garret asked, giving Sherlock a playful punch in the arm. Sherlock flinched back at the touch as if he’d been slapped. The recoil didn’t go unmissed by Garret. 

“I’m just playing, loosen up” Garret said, looking in Sherlock’s eyes. Though he was slightly shorter than Sherlock, when he looked him in the eye, Sherlock felt himself shrinking. He was breathing through his nose in a desperate attempt to keep the panic attack away long enough to not have it right here in this office. 

“I think it would be a good idea if you got another detective to assist you” Sherlock said, words strained. He was surprised that he was able to keep his voice even; he felt like he couldn’t breathe. 

“Oh, but why?” Garret asked. “You don’t want to work with your dear uncle Garret?” 

Sherlock’s skin was breaking out in a cold sweat and he was barely controlling the shaking that he felt inside him. “You’re not my uncle” Sherlock said simply. “And I really think that it would be best if I left” 

Garret stared at Sherlock, looked him over from head to toe. Sherlock felt shivers going up his neck as his eyes met his again. Garret avoided Sherlock’s comment completely. “Twenty years and you’ve hardly changed at all” he said “ You’re definitely taller, look you’re bigger than me now. But other than that….still the same curls, same smooth baby face.” He looked deep into his eyes. “Sorry to say, the same sad eyes….lonely…” 

Sherlock looked at Garret with what he hoped was daggers in his eyes. His hands were shaking now no matter how much he tried to keep them still. Feeling mounting panic Sherlock turned around to leave. Before he could get out the door, he heard Garret ask from behind him, “How’s your dad doing these days?” 

Sherlock knew he should just keep going; leave, go home, try to pretend that he’d never seem him. But he didn’t. He turned around and faced Garret “He’s dead” Sherlock said, his voice deadpan. 

Garret frowned slightly “Ah, that’s a shame” he gave Sherlock a small smile. “You finally get tired of his shit and kill him?” 

Sherlock bit his tongue so hard that he tasted blood; he refused to lose his temper or panic around him. “No” Sherlock said. “After years of poisoning himself with alcohol he finally keeled over from liver failure” 

Garret sat back on his desk, his face neutral. “Guess he deserved it, didn’t he? I’d have liked to see him once more, but I bet you’re glad he’s dead.” 

Sherlock refused to take the bait. “I’m leaving” he said with certainty in his voice. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea” Garret said and Sherlock felt something inside him freeze. 

“Why the hell not?” Sherlock said, his fists balled as anger and pure fear battled inside him for attention. When this meeting was over he was going to lose it he could tell. 

“What would you tell people?” Garret said. “When they asked why you left” 

Sherlock didn’t want to admit that Garret had a point. He couldn’t leave; Lestrade, the whole Yard would ask him. John would ask him…..

“I know you won’t tell them, so….why not just solve this one case?” Garret asked. “You’ll be here a few days tops. What could it hurt?” 

Sherlock could think of multiple things it ‘could hurt’ but he refrained from saying them. “Fine. I will cooperate with you on this case as quickly as possible and leave” Sherlock said before walking out of the office. He made his way quickly through the maze of desks in the office to the restroom. As soon as he closed the door behind him, he vomited into the toilet, his whole body shaking. After his stomach had nothing left to give, he sat down on the tile floor, the harsh fluorescent lights hurting his eyes. He leaned against the wall and put his head down, allowing the panic to overtake him completely. His hands shook and he felt dizzy. His heart was racing and he put a hand to his chest as the pain seared through it.


	9. Chapter 9

As John walked into the foyer of the asylum he started to feel that he’d made a mistake. His stomach was beginning to churn and his palms sweated no matter how much he wiped them on his jacket. He walked over to the desk, knowing that if he didn’t get up to   
Sherlock’s room soon he wouldn’t have the courage to do it. 

“Hello” the receptionist greeted him warmly. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Sherlock Holmes” John said nervously. He hoped no one would notice how much he was wiping his hands. 

The receptions pressed a few buttons on the computer before dialing the phone. When she got off the phone she turned toward him again. 

“Dr. Woodhams will be down in a few minutes” she said warmly. The doctor was meeting him; John felt his nerves take a large turn. The doctor hadn’t seen him the last time; he wondered what horrible things he’d have to tell John. He ran through a million possible scenarios in his head, each one more terrible than the next. By the time that Dr. Woodhams walked up to him he felt his nerves shaking. 

Dr.Woodhams was an older doctor, most likely in his mid to late 60s with silver hair but a broad smile on his face. John tried to return it but he couldn’t. “I suppose you’re Dr. Watson here for Sherlock?” he asked, putting his hand out warmly. 

John shook his hand, confused. “Yes….how…?”

Dr.Woodhams smiled “Greg Lestrade told me to expect you when he was round earlier. Said you were Sherlock’s friend and his flat mate?” 

“Yeah” John said, trying to keep defeat out of his voice. 

“Why don’t we step into my office for a second?” Dr. Woodhams said, gesturing John into an office down the hallway. John stepped into the small office, at once surrounded overflowing bookshelves and picture frames. It was obvious that he spent a lot of time here. 

John sat down across from Dr. Woodhams. “I know that this must be a very hard time for you” he said. “I’m sure that Greg told you about Sherlock’s condition” 

“That he doesn’t remember me, yeah” John said sarcastically before he could stop himself. He felt embarrassed the minuet that he said it; he sounded like a pouting child. 

“It seems that Sherlock has lost his memory of the past few years. I think we can safely say that Sherlock’s mind is trying to cope with a difficult event in his life and the way his mind is doing that right now is to block everything out completely. That doesn’t mean that he won’t eventually remember everything once again. He has already made so much progress since he’s been here” Dr. Woodhams gave him an encouraging look. “Even if he doesn’t remember you right now, I think it would do him a lot of good if you visited him, spoke to him. You are a familiar face and his subconscious might make a connection; besides, right now, he really needs a friend” 

John didn’t want to look at the doctor; he felt uncomfortable. John stared off to the side, to a bright colorful kid’s drawing that said, “I love you granddad” written in crayon. “But what do I say? He’ll see me as a stranger” John spoke after a while. 

“Introduce yourself, tell him who you are” Dr. Woodhams said, “It’s no surprise to him that he’s missing some memories. We had to explain to him because in his mind he had done nothing to deserve being here. We told him about the attack, though he doesn’t really want to believe us. He knows he’s forgotten some things. You can tell him you’re his friend, let him ask questions” 

John nodded, still staring at the drawing. “Okay…I’ll, uh…do my best” 

…….

Sherlock was still in the solitary part of the hospital and John squirmed a little as he saw the room come into the view, the one where everything had gone so wrong. A nurse led him in through the waiting room and through the door to where Sherlock was; at least that was a good sign that they didn’t feel it was necessary to guard John behind the glass. 

The nurse left him as he walked through the door and John flinched as he walked in, scared what he would see. When he walked into the room, some of his fears were alleviated. Sherlock was sitting on the bed, cross legged, reading a book; before John caught sight of his face, he almost looked young and carefree. The light of the sun was spilling through the window and onto Sherlock and his book; as John walked further into the room, Sherlock looked up from his book at John and he could see the suffering written on his face. He didn’t look young at all now; his hair was thin and appeared to have patches ripped out. His face was pale and sickly looking, the scratches still very noticeable. He looked even thinner if that was possible, his pyjamas hanging off him and John wondered idly if they were feeding him. John was really relived to see that Sherlock was no longer in the straight jacket and that he wasn’t running at him like he wanted to kill him. 

Sherlock looked at John with a scowl. “Are you another damn policeman here to question me?” he asked. His voice was so…..not like Sherlock. It was rough, harsh, and angry. Full of emotion and yet somehow devoid. 

“Uh….no” John said, slightly taken back from the tone of Sherlock’s voice and his obvious bitterness. 

“Good, I already told Lestrade and all the others that I have absolutely no idea what they are talking about” Sherlock said. He tossed his book onto the bed and looked up at John. “So, what’s your business here? You a doctor? Another psychologist here to get me to bloody open up about my feelings?” 

John was finding it hard to come up with the right words under the circumstances; it was difficult to speak to someone that didn’t know you even though you’d lived together for the past year. “No, no I’m not a doctor. Well, at least not that kind. I’m John….John Watson, your….flat mate” John felt odd introducing himself to Sherlock; he also felt that flat mate wasn’t really an appropriate word to describe what they were but he didn’t know what else to say. 

Sherlock gave him a curios look. “Flat mate? Surely you must be lying” he said. 

John cautiously sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Why do you say that?” he asked. 

Sherlock gave a chuckle; it was a dark sort of chuckle, as if he was laughing at himself, but John was still glad to see it. “I’ve never had a flat mate” he said. “No one can stand me long enough” 

John had never really thought about that; if he had he would have wondered the same thing. “We’ve lived together for a year now” John said. 

Sherlock looked John over, as if sizing him up. It made John uncomfortable; while he was more than used to Sherlock deducing every detail about his life, this somehow felt different. Maybe it was because to Sherlock, this was his first look at him; when he’d met Sherlock he’d been unprepared for his powers of deduction. Now that he was prepared, he was afraid Sherlock might see how affected he’d been about all of this. 

If Sherlock noticed any of this, he didn’t comment on it. “Really?” he asked. His look was almost a surprised one. “And we’re…flat mates?”

John squirmed; it appeared Sherlock’s powers of deduction had dimensioned along with his memory loss. It was obvious in his question that Sherlock was asking if that’s all they were; the fact that he’d even ask that made John uncomfortable. “We’re friends. We work together” John said, hoping that would suffice. 

Sherlock looked him over again “How did I come to be working with a solider on cases?” he asked. 

Well, at least he hadn’t lost all of his powers. “We met through Mike Stamford. He knew us both separately and knew we were looking for a flat mate at the same time and he introduced us.” 

Sherlock nodded idly. “How’d we begin to work on cases?” he asked. 

John laughed at the memory. “We were looking at the flat together and Lestrade came in to get you to work on a murder case. You asked me to come along….and I did” 

“A strange man asks you to come help with a murder case and you just run along with him?” Sherlock asked in awe. 

John chuckled nervously, red coming to his cheeks. “You’re not exactly strange” he said. 

Sherlock gave another sarcastic laugh, one John was still happy to see. “Are you sure that you know me?” he asked. “I don’t think anyone would agree with you”

John grinned “Well, then they are wrong. I mean, we have our rows sometimes but I’m not planning on moving out anytime soon” 

Sherlock looked at John with a look John had rarely, if ever seen on Sherlock’s face; respect. “Well, that is interesting” he said after a while. “Too bad I don’t remember it” 

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up and stared out the window, pulling at his hair roughly; that explained the missing patches. Sherlock growled in frustration and cursed. “This is so infuriating. I can’t even remember my own life. They keep telling me I did horrible things…..I don’t believe it but they keep telling me so I have to believe that they are right. Why the hell would I attack all those people?” he looked at John as if he should have the answers. John just stared back; he wished he had an answer to that. 

Sherlock continue to pull at his hair; John was afraid he’d pull more out but he stopped after a minuet. He threw his hands down in frustration and looked at John. “Did I really do that? Attack all those people” 

John felt sick to his stomach but he was thankful that Lestrade had not told Sherlock that he had also attacked him. John nodded. “Yes…yes, you really did” he said grimly. 

Sherlock let his hands fall down to his sides; he stared out the window for a long time before he turned around to face John. “How did it happen?” he asked seriously. 

John really didn’t want to have to talk about this but he could tell by the look in his eyes that he really wanted to know. “We were going to a crime scene” John said, staring at the floor. “You’d been acting strange all day….well, you’d been acting strange for a couple of weeks actually. You were really upset and just not acting yourself. I suggested we go back home but as usual, you didn’t listen. We went to the crime scene and you began to study the bodies. I asked what you noticed about them, you didn’t seem to know anything and you got upset about that. Then Anderson and Donavan were being their normal annoying selves and saying horrible things. You started to have a panic attack……and you just kind of flipped out.” John looked down at the floor the entire time that he explained it. It was painful to talk about; he wanted to forget that night forever. 

Sherlock looked at John seriously. “What did I do to you?” he asked, looking at John with a look that told John he was seeing completely through him. 

“What do you mean? John said, trying to play dumb but knowing that it wouldn’t work. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I attacked you….what did I do to you? Its obvious in your eyes, your tone, the way you’re holding yourself when you speak…..I hurt you somehow” he said anger rising with every word. 

John let out an audible sigh. “I tried to stop you….you…..stabbed me…in the shoulder. It wasn’t that serious” he said as he stared at the floor. 

Anger and confusion passed over Sherlock’s face when John looked up at him. Sherlock threw himself on his bed, facing the wall away from John in a typical Sherlock pout. “Leave” he said thickly. John couldn’t tell if there was more anger or sadness in his tone. There was definite confusion and John knew that had to be upsetting Sherlock more than anything ease. 

“Why?” John asked. He knew that talking about the accident wasn’t a good idea, but Sherlock had been the one to bring it up. 

“Just leave” Sherlock said. Now John could tell there was definitely more sadness in this tone. John wanted to push him but he knew that it would do no good; Sherlock was unpredictable and unstable at his best, it should not have surprised John that this hadn’t gone well. Honestly, John was surprised that Sherlock had talked to him as much as he had. 

John got up from the chair and walked toward the door. He paused, turning around and looking at Sherlock once more; he was curled up on the bed in the fetal position, staring at the wall. John walked out of the door without saying anything, just hoping that the next visit would go better.


	10. Chapter 10

Flashhback:

Sherlock stared at the pages of the book, not having read any of the words for twenty minutes, merely looking at them. He tossed the book on the floor where it joined a growing pile of books he’d tried to read but couldn’t. He finally decided to just give up; he lay down on his bed, clutching his pillow to his chest. The flat was quiet, too quiet; John was out on another infuriating date and he had been for the past 4 hours and 20 minutes. Sherlock had tried to work on some experiments, updating his blog, reading several books but nothing held his attention. Oddly enough, he found that his mind kept drifting to John and his date. What were they doing? It was a very long time to be on a date, longer than John’s usual dates of dinner and a film usually took. The longer he took to get back home, the more annoyed Sherlock became. Strangely enough he found that he was becoming annoyed at most of John’s dates. 

Sherlock stared at the wall and listened to the ticking on the clock on the wall. He was bored…..but also, something else. A tugging at his heart, almost like a pain. He was……lonely. It was an appalling realization but he knew that it was true. He actually wanted John here. Not to say that he wanted to talk to him, but he desired his presence. 

Sherlock stared at the wall for 15 minutes before he heard the door open; he was slightly embarrassed by how quickly he got off the bed and walked to his bedroom door. He was walking out into the sitting room to talk to John when he stopped in his tracks. John and his date (he couldn’t even remember her name, he didn’t think he was listening to John when he mentioned it) were snogging on the couch like shameless teenagers. For a moment Sherlock was frozen in place just watching them. But the more that he stood there the more uncomfortable he felt himself becoming. He turned around and went back to his room unnoticed. 

Sherlock flopped heavily on the bed, staring at the ceiling; he was annoyed. Now his embarrassing feeling of loneliness was going to persist; Sherlock knew from experience that if John brought a date back to the flat he at least was going to attempt to sleep with her. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to go to his mind palace but John’s presence kept popping up in his various rooms and finally snapped his eyes open. He shook his head and tried to reenter the mind palace, but John still kept showing up. Sherlock didn’t understand it; things just didn’t “show up” in the mind palace, that was the whole point of it. It ordered his mind, it was a way to keep out the thoughts he didn’t want. So why was John’s presence coming into it despite the fact that he didn’t want it to?

 

Sherlock could hear noises coming from the sitting room and he grabbed his pillow and smashed it against his ears; he hated the woman who ever she was. He began to make judgments on her based on the little bit he’d seen from his sneak peak. She was obviously an idiot….she didn’t deserve John. John was a unique person, he wasn’t some ordinary idiot. All the women he dated were so stupid and Sherlock didn’t know how he put up with them; surely he could do better. Why did he date these women? It wasn’t obviously because he was looking for deep conversation or a long lasting relationship. After all, they weren’t right for him at all, couldn’t he see that? It had to do with the sex part of it; what else could it be? But even so he could surely find a smarter partner for that as well. Why didn’t he just-

“Sherlock, hey-“ 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as he heard John’s voice through the pillow. Sherlock’s eyes popped open and he threw the pillow at John in anger. “What do you want? Aren’t you too busy copulating with your date right now?” He knew that his voice sounded childish, even to his own ears. He had been wanting John around all day and now that he was here he was snapping at him; that didn’t make much sense to him but its what he felt like doing. 

John scowled. “Not that it’s any of your business” he said with controlled anger. “But she left 10 minutes ago” 

“Oh, so your powers of seduction didn’t work on her this time?” Sherlock asked in a mocking tone. What the hell was he doing? He felt a strange sense of pain inside himself and for some reason this made him want to be mean to John. Even though a few minutes ago he had actually desired to be….close?....to John. Wanted him here, to talk, just to be around. That in of itself was such a weird sensation for him, but that couple with his now anger and Sherlock was very confused. 

John gave Sherlock a deathly look as he handed Sherlock his mobile. “Lestrade keeps ringing you” he said sourly before turning to leave the room. 

Sherlock got off the bed and followed him into the sitting room. “Thank you….but you still didn’t answer my question. Why did your date leave? Normally you have such success in matters of physical affection, so you must have-“

John whipped around and he wore an angry, no nonsense face Sherlock had rarely seen on him. “Sherlock, just shut up” he said tiredly. 

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“She just wanted to go home….didn’t want to….you know” John said angrily. “Are you happy? Happy I admitted I failed at seducing her?” 

“Happy?” Sherlock asked confused. “Why should I be happy? You were obviously hoping to have sex with her, by the way you two were snogging on the couch.” 

John glared at Sherlock “How the hell would you know?” he asked icily. 

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock asked, taken aback. 

“I said, how would you know?” John asked. “How would you know anything about snogging or sex or even wanting to touch another human being? You don’t even like people. You barely like me….so, do me a favor Sherlock. Don’t ask me about my sex life. Ever. Its none of your business” And with that John stomped loudly up the stairs to his room. 

Sherlock was frozen on his spot for a moment, staring in confusion in John’s general direction before stomping off loudly to his own room. He slammed his door for good measure and then slid down to the floor, hugging his arms around him. He didn’t understand why he’d lashed out like that against John; it was totally inappropriate and he knew it. It was the exact opposite of what he’d wanted to do. He was so confuse by the emotions that were swirling around in him; the loneliness that had started earlier was becoming annoying persistent. Joined with it was confusion; when he’d seen John and his date on the couch he’d almost felt….jealous. 

Sherlock shook his head. That was ridiculous, he was not interested in having sex with John, he knew that. But he was interested in something; with his persistent loneliness he’d wondered what it might feel like to have John pull him into his arms and chase the loneliness away. 

Sherlock hugged himself tighter and put his head on his knees. Who was he kidding? John was right; he didn’t know anything about being affectionate with anyone. No one wanted to be close to him. 

Sherlock had almost worked himself up to tears when his mobile rang again. He picked it up “What?” he asked annoyed. 

“Sherlock, this is Lestrade” His voice was annoyed, probably from ringing him so many times. 

“What is it?” he asked, not in the mood for small talk and wanting to get on with this. 

“I need to send you out on a case, to another station, should just be for a few days” Lestrade said. “Will that be a problem?” 

Sherlock thought about his loneliness and confusion concerning John. Maybe getting away from the flat is what he needed. “No, no problem at all. What is it?”   
……

The next day John stood outside of Sherlock’s room, his hand pausing on the doorknob. He wasn’t entirely sure that he should be here at all; yesterday had gone so poorly. He had left the asylum yesterday, deflated but not really surprised that the meeting hadn’t gone well. He’d tried to keep himself busy when he went home, having dinner with Mrs. Hudson, gushing about how well Sherlock was doing and then watching a few films with her until it was late enough that he could go to bed. He was not surprised that he had nightmares that night; several times he saw Sherlock running at him with those wild eyes and wielding a bloody knife. 

John didn’t know how Sherlock would react to him being here today; yesterday he’d reacted pretty well until the accident was mentioned. He had no idea if Sherlock would be angry he was back. He sighed; there was really only one way to figure out. He pushed the door of Sherlock’s room open and stepped in. 

He was alarmed when he stepped in; Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, pulling pages out of a book and tossing them around the room. His hair was missing obvious patches it hadn’t been yesterday and he was in the same rumpled pyjamas. His pale face was flushed on the cheeks and his eyes were wide. 

“Sherlock? What are you doing?” John asked it in an interested tone as if what he was doing was intriguing and not scary. He looked at the pile of pages on the floor and guessed that Sherlock had ripped up about 10 books. 

Sherlock turned toward John as if he hadn’t known he was there. “I hate being in this place!” he shouted, tossing the book to the floor and crumpling down on his knees. He began grabbing handfuls of pages and tearing them. “It’s so frustratingly dull!” He began muttering curses under his breath. 

John knew better than to try to tell Sherlock to stop; it wouldn’t do any good and since Sherlock wasn’t hurting anyone else or himself, he just let him go on. Sherlock continued to rip up the papers in a rage, muttering curses and obscenities about the staff. He stared to throw the paper around in a sort of fit before crumpling down. “They all think I’m mad…..”He said softly. He looked up at John. “I’m not sure why I’m talking to you. I guess it’s because they tell me you care about me” 

John felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Seeing Sherlock look up at him, looking so sickly and indeed mad, and have him say that was painful. He was glad he’d come now; it was obvious, that even if Sherlock didn’t remember him, he was still reaching out, still looking for someone to care. “I do care about you” John said, hoping Sherlock didn’t pick up on the thickness of his voice. “I told you, I’m your friend” 

Sherlock muttered something under his breath; he could tell that Sherlock didn’t want him to hear it but he did even though it was the faintest of a whisper. “Great….finally meet someone who can stand me and I don’t remember him.” John had to work hard to hide his pain at the words. 

Sherlock looked up at John. “They all look at me like I’m bloody crazy” he said before looking down “I try so hard to remember everything and I can’t” 

“Just relax Sherlock” John said comfortingly. “You don’t need to force yourself to remember. You will…..just give yourself time.” He held up a bag of Angelo’s take out he had smuggled in under his coat. “Brought you some Angelo’s….I know it’s your favorite. Want some? I know this hospital food must be bloody awful” 

Sherlock eyed the bag but got up and walked in the other direction, flopping on the bed. “No thanks….not hungry” he said dismissively. 

John held in an internal sigh; he’d brought the food in an effort to get Sherlock to eat. He looked like he hadn’t eaten the entire time he’d been here. Maybe he hadn’t; John knew that after he’d come back from his ill-fated case his food habits, already bad, had declined. Now it appeared he wasn’t eating at all. “Sherlock, when was the last time you ate?”

“Said I’m not hungry” Sherlock growled, flopping backwards on the bed, folding his arms. 

“Fine…..fine” John said, leaving the food on the table and sitting in the chair by the bed. “It’ll just be there in case you do want it” 

John sat for a few moments in uncomfortable silence, not knowing that to say as Sherlock stared at the ceiling. He was glad when Sherlock broke the silence. “I probably belong here” he said melancholy. 

John was taken aback by this admission. “Why would you say that?” 

“I’m a freak” Sherlock said staring at the ceiling. He said it in the same tone one would use to tell if they were a boy or girl; just like it was a cold hard fact. 

“Sherlock, you’re not a freak” John said. 

Sherlock huffed loudly. “Of course I am…..I bloody attacked a bunch of people and I don’t even remember it” 

John groaned inside; he’d hoped they wouldn’t have to discuss the attack again. But then again, he was sure it was very prominent in Sherlock’s mind. “I think something must have happened to you Sherlock .You wouldn’t have done that normally. You’re a good person”

“What do you mean something happened to me?” Sherlock asked, intrigued. 

John groaned audibly this time; this was not the way that he wanted the conversation to go. “Right before you….had your episode…..you had started to act strangely. I thought maybe something was going on with you…but I didn’t ask.” 

Sherlock rolled over on the bed and looked at John. “What did I do? What was strange about how I acted?” he asked curiously. 

John sighed “You went on a case by yourself. You were gone for almost two weeks….no one knew where you were. When you came back you started acting funny. You wouldn’t talk, you were distant, and you lashed out at everyone.” John drifted off for a minute before speaking again. “I thought maybe someone hurt you…..” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time….” Sherlock said distantly. 

“What?” John asked. Was he suggesting what being hurt was a common occurrence?

“Nothing” Sherlock said quickly, defensively. It only cemented to John that something was wrong. 

“You can tell me Sherlock……no one has to know” John said gently. But it wasn’t easy enough. 

Sherlock jumped off the bed and walked toward the corner of the room, arms crossed. He stared at the wall. “I said nothing!” Sherlock said roughly. 

“Okay” John said relenting. “I’m sorry I asked.” He dropped the subject even though it gave him a bad feeling.


	11. Chapter 11

John stayed for a few more minutes but Sherlock then made up some excuse that he wanted to be left alone so John went. He was surprised when Sherlock asked, "When you come back tomorrow, bring my chess set". He wasn't looking at John, in fact he was looking in the opposite direction but John was pleased; it at least meant that Sherlock hoped, or at least tolerated, that John would come back. John was glad for an excuse to come back, even if he knew playing chess with Sherlock was torturous.

John called in take away that night for dinner and ate in front of the telly, mindlessly staring at the program. After he finished eating, he leaned back, pulling a quilt off the end of the couch and trying to make himself comfortable. No matter what he turned the telly to though, he couldn't get his mind to focus on what he was watching. He kept thinking about what Sherlock had said; it made him remember Mrs. Hudson's remark that Sherlock had had a hard life. Was it possible his family had been more that merely cold? Maybe Sherlock came from a broken home….. maybe he had been hurt a lot. The thought was enough to make John's dinner sink into his stomach like a weight. He hoped that was a wrong assumption. When John though about it, he actually knew nothing about Sherlock's family. Other than Mycroft, Sherlock never mentioned any of them; he didn't even know if any of them were still alive. John stared at the telly for the next several minutes, gearing up his courage to do something he never did; willingly call Mycroft.

John pulled his mobile out and dialed the infrequently used number; it rang several times before he heard Mycroft's voice on the other end. "Ah, John. I've been expecting your call" he said tiredly.

Of course you have , John thought as he rolled his eyes. "I'd like to speak to you about Sherlock and….you know, what he's going through."

"I don't have the time right now John to come over there" Mycroft said mildly and John had a nagging suspicion that he did have the time and yet just didn't want to come.

"It's important….."John said. He knew that Mycroft probably didn't care. "I'm trying to figure out why Sherlock's in the hospital."

"Sherlock's in the hospital because he went completely insane and attacked five people" Mycroft said.

John bit his tongue to keep back the response he wanted to say. "You know what I meant….I want to find out why he lost it" John said.

"No good can come from digging around, John" Mycroft said. "Like you said, Sherlock just lost it. There's nothing you can do about it so I suggest that you drop it."

John cursed. "This is your own brother and you don't even care he's in a mental hospital?" he burst out. "I bet you haven't even gone to visit him"

"I care" Mycroft said in that same calm voice that made John want to kill him. "I'm simply cautioning you that nothing can be done for him. There's no magic reason why Sherlock lost it. He's a damaged person….he always has been. I've tried to protect him as best I could but I guess I've failed"

"Like hell you have" John said, his anger bursting forth "You're always following Sherlock around and where were you when he was hurt, when someone did something to him."

Mycroft sighed. "John, it's not unlike Sherlock to leave for days at a time and not tell anyone where he was going or what he was doing."

"Maybe he did that in the past but that's very unlike him now" John protested.

"Why? Because he has you?" Mycroft said smoothly.

John hung up the mobile, knowing he would probably regret it. Mycroft would probably have him whisked away to some warehouse in the dead of night for one of his secret talks. John tossed the mobile across the couch and lay down, clutching a pillow to his chest. He really hated Mycroft sometimes; how could he be so cold? John expected that people from the station would doubt Sherlock and write him off as a nutter, but Mycroft was his brother. John squeezed the pillow. Was he really the only person that believed that Sherlock did this because something had happened to him? Was he really the only person that believed Sherlock wasn't doing drugs or something illegal while he was gone? The thought made John sad; was he really all Sherlock had?

…

"Check mate….again" Sherlock said tiredly but John could see the hint of a smile tug at his lips as he looked over at John. John put his hand to his forehead in defeat and groaned. "This is not even fair" he said.

He looked over at Sherlock who was sitting crossed legged on the other side of the bed, hands knitted under his chin as he hid his excitement. " I agree…..a match of our intellect is hardly a fair fight, but you could try harder." Sherlock shot back, allowing a small smile to show. As insufferable as playing chess with Sherlock could be because he always (always!) lost, it was worth it to see Sherlock actually show some semblance of normalcy and happiness, the first he'd seen in weeks.

"That's right, I'm not trying hard enough" John said shrugging as Sherlock reached over and set the pieces up for another game.

Today had been better; when John had arrived Sherlock was calming sitting of the bed, his eyes closed much like he did when he visited his "mind palace"; John didn't ask him what he was doing. Sherlock had looked up quickly and had greeted John, eagerly setting up the game. They didn't talk a whole lot; it was Sherlock after all. But Sherlock did ask John about some of their previous cases, ones John had helped him with. Sherlock seemed intrigued by hearing the cases and stories that were new to him now and John was glad to keep talking as long as Sherlock seemed content.

Dr. Woodhams had stopped him again on his way in and had asked John how things were going talking to Sherlock. When he had told him that things were going pretty smoothly, that Sherlock was pretty willing to talk to him even if he didn't remember him (he left out the fits and Sherlock's episode of book destroying) Dr. Woodhams was surprised. "That's very good….I'm glad he's speaking with you. He hardly speaks to anyone here; acts like he doesn't trust us"

Not that John could blame him; as far as Sherlock was concerned, in his mind, he'd done nothing wrong to be put here and all these people were telling him he was some sort of psychotic maniac. He couldn't blame Sherlock for not trusting them. But it did leave John wondering why he did seem to trust John; he didn't remember him and yet he tolerated his presence much more than anyone else's, even Lestrade who he did remember.

Sherlock and John played for several minutes in silence before John said tentatively, "So, Sherlock. Why haven't you been talking to the doctors here?"

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes like a stubborn teenager. "They're all mindless idiots…..they know nothing" he said sullenly.

"They're just trying to help you remember what happened" John said as he moved a chess piece and looked up at Sherlock.

"They can't help me" Sherlock said flatly. "I don't trust them….they probably just want to incriminate me anyway"

John felt his stomach drop when he considered that Sherlock's memory coming back might mean he did get prosecuted, though John thought his defense of insanity at time of the crime would be pretty strong. He chose to ignore that comment. "So why do you talk to me?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up at him confused. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, why do you talk to me?" John asked pleasantly. " You don't remember me; yes, I've told you I was your flat mate and that we were friends but you wouldn't take someone fully on that"

Sherlock looked down at the chess board. "I talk to you because of the text" he said.

Thoroughly confused, John said, "What? What text?"

Sherlock stared down at his hands, which John was alarmed to see where red and peeling, most likely still from his obsessive washing. "The first morning that I….came back to myself, I suppose is the way to put it…..they were all questioning me and telling me I'd done all these things….it was….not good. It was a lot to take in. Everyone was so….." Sherlock looked down, sadness in his eyes. "At the end of the day I found the small set of belongings they had allowed me to have here. I found my mobile with this text on it" Sherlock reached over on the side table and pulled out his mobile. When he turned it around John saw a text he'd seen before. One he had written:

Sherlock, I hope you are okay. I don't know what happened tonight, but I know that this isn't you. I don't know what will happen with the police, or even if you are okay. But no matter what is going on, I want you to know that I believe in you. I know that something made you do this….I know you wouldn't do this otherwise. I miss you….the flat is too quiet without you.- JW

John felt sadness blossom in him before bubbling down; it was the text that he'd written to Sherlock the night of the attack. The one that he was sure that Sherlock would never read.

"I couldn't believe that someone would write that, that someone could trust someone that much in such terrible circumstances…..especially not me" Sherlock said cynically. "I knew that whoever wrote that must really be spec-" Sherlock caught himself as his face turned blood red and he looked away from John "Different" he said finally. "When you introduced yourself and I spoke to you, I knew that it was you that had written it. And if you wrote that about me, I knew I could trust you. Because…..you're the only one that trusts me"

John felt a flush on his own face as Sherlock looked uncomfortably away. John wondered how long they were going to have to sit in uncomfortable silence when the nurse came in with a dinner tray. John gushed thanks to the woman that had broken the awkwardness while Sherlock ignored her.

Sherlock took one look at the dinner tray and the looked back to the chess set, making his next move. "Your turn" Sherlock said as if nothing had happened.

John looked at the dinner tray. "Aren't you going to eat?" he asked as if it wasn't a stupid question.

Sherlock glanced at the tray for a second but John still saw it; hunger. Sherlock was actually hungry. He'd seen that look on Sherlock so rarely that it was hard to be sure but John had a feeling he was right. "No" he said simply.

"Aren't you hungry?" John asked even though he'd already seen the glance of hunger in Sherlock's eyes.

"No" Sherlock lied again, not glancing up. "Your move" he was more insistent this time. John's concern about Sherlock's eating habits had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Sherlock rarely ate; that was a given thing. He could go days without eating and sometimes only eating then because John nagged him to. But that was because he genially wasn't hungry or at least he wasn't paying attention to his hunger. He never, to John knowledge at least, purposely didn't eat when he was hungry. When John looked at Sherlock and how thin he was and how he was purposely not eating; it gave John a bad feeling. He wondered if he was starving himself on purpose.

After Sherlock won the game of chess (again) John excused himself to go to the bathroom. The hospital was a maze and it took quite a while to find it and find his way back. When he returned to the room he found Sherlock on the floor of the bedroom, back against the bed, legs tucked up, head on his knees, arms around his waist as he was wincing in pain. Something was wrong, John was sure of it; this wasn't just a psychological problem. Something was wrong with Sherlock medically; John didn't have enough evidence to make a deduction as to what. He needed to speak to the about it; John feared Sherlock would end up in the hospital soon if he didn't start eating. John also suspected that this issue went deeper than Sherlock simply refusing to eat.

John was torn between walking into the room and asking Sherlock what was wrong and making a subtle entrance so that Sherlock could compose himself; he finally decided on the latter, opening the door loudly and slowly before coming in. Sherlock was on the bed, face composed by the time John made it in and he walked back over to the bed, resuming the game without a word about Sherlock's weird behavior though he felt his stomach churning.


	12. Chapter 12

John stayed with Sherlock until visiting hours were over; he had tried to find Dr. Woodhams but he the receptionist told him he was gone for the day. John resigned to tell him about Sherlock's not eating in the morning when he came back to see Sherlock.

The cab ride was quiet and John nearly fell asleep in the backseat; the jarring of the cab as it stopped outside 221B jerked him out of his dose and he paid the cabbie quickly before walking through the misty rain to the front door. It was pitch black in the hallway and John was surprised when he tripped and fell on something on the floor. He stumbled to the ground and cursed loudly, before covering his mouth, hoping he hadn't woken Mrs. Hudson.

He was rubbing his sore knee and attempting to get up the stairs when a light flashed on and he heard the soft call behind him "John, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her eyes squinting towards the light as she wrapped her dressing gown tightly around her.

John looked toward the floor and saw the rug was turned up slightly. "Just tripped a bit" he said.

"You're out late? Seeing Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked, her eyes seeming to wake up slightly.

"Yeah" John said. "Yes…..he's doing a little better now. He still doesn't remember me but…..I think he'll get there soon" As usual John didn't tell her any of his concerns, like how he was pretty sure Sherlock had eaten next to nothing the entire time he'd been there. "He's been talking to me and I hope something will jar his memory one of these times"

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him. "He's lucky to have you, you know. To take care of him" she said warmly. "He's lucky he has someone that loves him as much as you do"

John felt his face turn beet red. "Mrs. Hudson…..we're not….we don't…." he stuttered out, embarrassment creeping up his spine.

Mrs. Hudson waved the comment off "John dear, I know that" she said "But that doesn't mean that you don't love him. Because you clearly do; you would do anything for him. As alone as Sherlock's been all his life its good he found the one person that was made for him."

John didn't care what Mrs. Hudson said, he still felt embarrassed at the intimate comments she was making about him and Sherlock. Mostly because he was turning it over in his mind. Did he love Sherlock? He knew he wasn't in love with him but that didn't mean he couldn't love him in a different way.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a seriously look. "You know he really cares about you too John" she said quietly. "He can't express it like everyone else can, but he really does. He's never had anyone that cared about him the way you do"

Did she mean love? That Sherlock never had anyone that loved him….the thought made John feel suddenly overwhelmed by sadness for his lost flat mate. How horrible would it be to go for over thirty years in your life with no one that genuinely cared about you? John had had his share of issues with his family over the years but he never doubted that they loved him, even if they rarely said it. "Surely he did" John said, wanting to be wrong. "Surely his mum and dad did"

Mrs. Hudson looked sad. "They weren't exactly the most nurturing of people" she said simply.

John took that as a no and he felt sad for Sherlock. "What do you mean?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson looked like she wished that she had said anything. " I didn't know them that well, they kept mostly to themselves. His mother was kind enough but she never really wanted to be a parent; she saw her career as more important and spend most her time there. She simply didn't have time to be a mother" Mrs. Hudson looked slightly angry at this. " She wasn't nurturing at all. Not hateful, but not kind either."

"What about his dad?" John asked, not knowing if he wanted to know.

Another flash of anger crossed her eyes. "He was a harsh man, a drinker. It just got worse and worse every year"

"Did Sherlock tell you this?" John asked. He couldn't imagine Sherlock, even as a child, confiding in anyone on such matters.

"Of course he didn't" Mrs. Hudson said. "You know how he is…..No, he didn't talk much even back then."

"If you weren't that chummy with his parents then how did you come to know him as well as you did?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at that memory. "He used to help me in my garden; we were neighbors. He wandered over one day when I was tending the bees that I had at the time. He was only….I don't know, 6 or 7, but he was fascinated by the bees. He'd come over and help me with them and some of the other plants I had"

John smiled at the image of a kid Sherlock helping Mrs. Hudson in the garden; the image didn't quite fit in his mind but he still had to smile. "It's hard to picture" John said.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "He was enthusiastic about it, even if he was very quiet…though he opened his mouth quickly for his deductions. Even as a child he was alarmingly perceptive"

John thought about what Sherlock had said at the hospital. "I don't want to ask this….but Sherlock said something that made me wonder…..was his family….abusive?" John didn't want to ask, but since Mycroft wouldn't talk to him he didn't have another option. He had to at least explore the possibility that past abuse might have something to do with Sherlock's current state.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were down cast. "His mother wasn't….she was just distant. Ignored him more than anything. His father…..was obviously verbally abusive, not that Sherlock was open about that. Things just slipped out from time to time."

"What about physically?" John asked tentatively.

Mrs. Hudson hesitated "I never could determine that. He's so private, he would never tell me something like that and he always dressed so covered. That in itself made me wonder if he was covering something up. I always suspected that he might. There was one time….I suppose he was about 11. He was digging a hole for a plant and his shirt sleeves pushed up slightly. I saw bruises on his wrists that went all the way around. Looked like…." She grimaced, and she didn't have to say it for John to know; buries that could only come from being tied up.

"I asked him about it, but he got very defensive" Mrs. Hudson said, "He seemed embarrassed and angry. He covered up quickly and insisted that I was seeing things. I told him he could tell me if someone was hurting him….he just ran away. I didn't see him for a long time after that. I didn't do anything about it…"

John looked at her and noticed tears in her eyes. "If there was something going on, it wasn't your fault, he didn't gave you anything to go on" he said jumping in to save her from blaming herself.

"I know….I just felt bad for him" Mrs. Hudson said. "He was so embarrassed…..I had no idea why he would feel that way if someone was hurting him."

John shook his head. "It's Sherlock….who knows with him" John said off handed. He switched his tine to causal. "Say, are Sherlock's parents still alive?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. " His mother died about 2 years ago, heart attack, I think he said. His father died about 10 years ago" she said.

John felt himself back at square one; even if Sherlock had been abused, which is certainly sounded like he had, it would most likely not rear its ugly head in this way especially if his family wasn't alive to bring the memories back up. He said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson before going up to his flat. He turned the radio on in his room before taking his clothes off, not bothering to put pyjamas on. He slid under the covers quickly even though he knew that he wouldn't sleep soon. He laid there for a long time trying to get lost in the words of the songs on the radio but to no avail; he couldn't get Sherlock out of his head. The problems of his memory loss and his concerns about Sherlock's health; worrying that Sherlock had been hurt, abused in the past….thoughts of sadness that he was the only person who had genially loved Sherlock. Wondering about whether his feelings for Sherlock were love.

John rolled over and stared at the radio on his bedside table. He saw Sherlock's scarf sitting beside the radio and without really thinking about it, he reached out and clutched it in his hands. He put it up to his face, but it didn't smell like Sherlock anymore and John felt a slight twinge at this. Even so, he fell asleep clutching it tightly.

…..  
Flashback: 

Sherlock tried his best to block out the sensory overload of the pub but it was difficult; the sounds of dozens of people and their annoying conversations, the smoke floating through the air and making it difficult to breath, laughing, lights flashing…..Sherlock sipped his beer slowly, anxiously waiting for this to be over. After visiting the crime scene that morning, the forensics team had insisted that they all go out for lunch. Sherlock had tried to sneak off to get a cab back to the hotel, but the others insisted. Garret had insisted.

Sherlock sat at the end of the table, two chairs away from everyone else; he had to be here but he didn't have to like it. He looked down at his glass, not wanting the beer and not eating anything here. He hated public restaurants; he only ever put up with them when he was with John. Since John wasn't here, he wasn't quite sure why he was here.

He was staring into his glass when saw a shadow; he looked up to see Garett sitting in front of him. "You can sit over there with the rest of us, we don't bite" he said good naturally with a smile.

Sherlock's stomach began to churn but it wasn't as bad as it'd been yesterday. He still felt apprehensive and cautious around Garett but since he had been nothing but cordial to him Sherlock wasn't experiencing the panic he had yesterday. "I don't want to" Sherlock said simply.

"I know they can be a bit….dull. But give them chance; I don't like to see you sitting down here by yourself" Garret said.

"What do you care what I do?" Sherlock asked bitterly. He knew his voice sounded slightly mopey and Garett would notice but he didn't care.

Garett gave him an offended look. "Of course I care….haven't I always?" he said quietly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't start that" Garrett said, noticing it. "It's true isn't it?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Just because you were there to patch me up after my dad beat the hell out of me doesn't mean you cared and it certainly doesn't mean you care now" he said with malice. His grip tightened around his glass and he wished he could make it shatter.

Garett shook his head. "You know it was more than that Sherlock" he said casually.

"Whatever…." Sherlock muttered. Most unlike him….he needed to pull it together. None of this was helping.

"Oh Sherlock," Garett said knowingly. "Calm down. I know it's impossible for you to believe that someone cares, but I genially do. I can see the pain in your eyes, same as it always was. Tell me, who is he?"

Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?"

"The guy who's got you feeling so lonely. The one you're pinning over." Garett said simply. Sherlock shuddered inwardly; Garett's powers of deduction were phenomenal. It was one thing they'd always had in common only Garett could always see more than Sherlock could, especially when it came to Sherlock.

"I don't know what you're talking about" Sherlock muttered. He felt a despicable blush creep over his cheeks.

"Sherlock, why not just be honest with me? You know I know when you're lying" Garett said.

Sherlock looked down. "I'm not talking to you" he said.

Garett leaned in. "I know you're lonely Sherlock, I can see it in your eyes. Why cant you just talk to me? "

Sherlock looked up at Garett "Just talk right?" he asked with heavy sarcasm. "You're just an open ear, right?"

"Sherlock, please….." Garett said. "Don't look like that at me. I know you're lonely and I know how well you do to hide it. No one else can see it, but I can. And when I said you could talk to me, I meant it. Just that…..I was always there for you, wasn't I Sherlock? I'll be here for you again if you need me"


	13. Chapter 13

Warnings: Mentions of physical abuse/ mentions of sexual abuse in this chapter. 

 

John woke up late the next morning, Sherlock's scarf still in his hand. He squinted his eyes as he woke up, not feeling the least bit rested. He hadn't had any nightmares throughout the night which he considered a miracle but he didn't feel like he had slept at all either. He rubbed his eyes and sat up stiffly, reaching for his mobile on the nightstand. He noticed a missed call from a number he didn't recognize and a new voicemail. John put the mobile to his ear and played the message:

"Dr.Watson, this is Dr. Woodhams, I'm calling regarding Sherlock. Could you please give me a call back when you get this? Thank you."

John felt his stomach drop; a million bad scenarios flashed through his mind. Had Sherlock attacked someone again? Hurt himself? Had a set back? His heart was pounding as he redialed the number for the hospital. It rang a couple of times before he heard Dr. Woodhams' voice on the other end. "Hello, "

"Hello, this is John Watson. You left me a message" John said, attempting to keep his voice as steady as he could.

"Yes" Dr. Woodhams said slowly. "I am sorry to say that we had to admit Sherlock to the local hospital."

"What? Why?" John asked. He knew that his voice sounded shaky but he didn't care.

"He collapsed this morning" Dr. Woodhams said "He recovered quickly, but given the general poor state of health he's in I thought it best to have him sent along. He was running a fever and vomited a couple of times. He said that he felt fine, but I'd like to be on the safe side."

John breathed a sigh of relief that at least it was nothing too serious, though he wasn't going so far as to not be worried. "Okay….okay….thank you." John said in a shaky voice.

…

Once again, John was smacked with the realization of how much he hated hospitals; as a doctor he felt a sense of power there, the knowledge of how he could help others. But on the other side…..he felt powerless. When he had gotten here they had directed him to the waiting area without telling him anything, telling him the doctor would be in to 'see him shortly'. Well, that had been almost an hour ago. His legs jiggled, his hands shook; he was beginning to think Sherlock was in more trouble than had thought.

John knitted his hands together and stared down at them; he had gotten Sherlock in this whole awful situation. His error in judgment in the beginning had caused Sherlock to end up in a mental hospital. Another error in judgment had caused him to end up in the hospital. He should have protected Sherlock, taken care of him; Mrs. Hudson said that he Sherlock was lucky to have him, but he didn't think he was. He wasn't lucky at all; John hadn't protected him from anything.

John listened to the pounding of rain on the hospital roof and the rumbling of thunder. What was taking the doctor so long? John stood up and began to pace around the empty waiting area. He was just about to try to find a doctor when young, tall blonde doctor walked over to John. "Are you here for Mr. Holmes?" the doctor asked, looking at his files.

"Yes" John said rushing forward to him. "John Watson. I'm Sherlock's…..partner"

A million times John had wished people would not assume he and Sherlock were a couple. This time he hoped that doctor would get the wrong impression; he felt like he might get more information and faster if they assumed that he was Sherlock's intamite partner rather than his work partner.

The doctor shook his hand. "Nice to meet you Mr. Watson. I'm Dr. Crager. Would you have a seat?" he said gesturing to a seat nearby. John couldn't help but notice the doctor had a grim look on his face and John felt his stomach sinking.

John sat down in a chair beside Dr. Crager, his palms beginning to get sweaty. "Is Sherlock okay?" John asked, his voice growing shaky again.

"Yes, yes, he will make a full recovery" Dr. Crager said. He looked at John seriously. "Mr. Holmes was brought in after having a collapse this morning. He was also experiencing a mid-range fever and nausea. I suspected that, in addition to his obvious malnutrition, he had an infection. Which he did, and we are giving him antibiotics to treat that. His nutrition was very poor and I questioned him about. He was very reluctant to speak to me about it, but eventually he admitted that he hadn't been eating hardly anything for weeks. I asked him why, and after quite a bit more prodding he admitted he was having issues with going to the toilet. Occasional incontinence, rectal bleeding, pain….He felt that if he didn't eat as much he could lessen the severity of these symptoms"

John's mouth was growing dry and he was becoming panicked. The pieces were falling slowly in place and John wished to scatter them back where they had been, where they didn't make sense and he didn't have to know what was slowly coming together in his medical mind.

Dr. Crager's face dropped. "I know that they said that Sherlock had extensive memory loss, but did he happen to tell you anything about….a recent trauma?" he asked gravely.

John felt like he couldn't breathe. "No…..I know that something was bothering him, but he wouldn't talk to me about it" John said, unable to look at the doctor.

"Mr. Watson….when Sherlock expressed this to me, I ordered a colonoscopy for him. Through this we found evidence of extensive anal fissures and other rectal damage, though which he was acquiring his infection."

John stared at the floor; it seemed like the walls were closing in on him. "What….what does that mean?" he asked hollowly. Even though he knew exactly what it meant.

"The damage was fairly new…..I believe that Mr. Holmes was….sexually assaulted." Dr. Crager said.

John's throat was closing up; he could feel tears stinging at the edges of his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was husky and thick. "There's no way…..that it could have been an accident ? Consensual?" he asked.

Dr. Crager looked even more serious. " No…..not with this level of damage. It would have been….extremely painful. No one would have put up with that level of pain consensually."

John's chest was almost exploding with emotions; anger, sadness, rage. He was barely able to conceal it. "We've fixed the more serious fissures surgically, and the rest we can heal with medication. He should make a full recovery."

Physically. Yes, physically Sherlock would heal. But what about mentally? Emotionally? "Can I see him?" John asked sadly.

"Yes, of course" Dr. Crager said. "He's in room 1147" He seemed to note John's emotional upheaval. He put a hand on John's shoulder. "If you need a moment, go ahead and take it. I think Sherlock's still sleeping anyway."

John nodded numbly before making his way quickly to the bathroom down the hallway. He switched the harsh bright light on and crumpled to the dingy tile floor before the tears began to pour from his eyes. He put his hands to his face and sobbed until his stomach ached. The more the tears came the more he hoped that they would ease his sorrow, but it only increased. Eventually he had no more tears to give and he wiped a hand across his wet face, laying his head up against the wall, his eyes closed.

John had been right about Sherlock in the worst way possible. He knew that something bad had happened to Sherlock, but he couldn't and wouldn't have imaged it had been this bad. Now that he looked back on it, he should have recognized the signs. Sherlock's new obsession with cleanliness, his withdrawnness, his lack of speech and eye contact, his desire to not be touched. Sherlock raped; it was the worst thing he could have imagined. How could this have happened? Sherlock was not defenseless; he could defend himself pretty well.

Even in his sorrow, anger was welling up inside him at whoever had done this. John clenched his fists when he thought about it; it was just wrong. Sherlock was so alien to sex it was just…..wrong. It was like violating a child. John's stomach rolled when he considered that he didn't even know if Sherlock had even had sex before. What if this was how he lost his virginity?

John just made it to the toilet before he vomited. His hands were shaking, but still in fists when he went to wipe his mouth off. The sadness he felt at considering what Sherlock must have went through, what he suffered and the rage he felt at whoever had done this to him were so strong in him it was like a cloud of emotion. John knew that he had to pull it together or he'd never be able to see Sherlock. He certainly couldn't let Sherlock see him such a mess. He put his hand over his eyes as another wave of tears came over him. No wonder Sherlock's mind had blocked out his memories; with him being missing for six days and no one knew where he was, it was hard to tell how much abuse he'd suffered.

John cried again until his stomach throbbed before being able to pull it together. He went to the sink and splashed water on his face, fanning himself to try to get rid of all evidence of tears. Sherlock would be able to tell and he didn't want Sherlock to know that he knew what had happened. When John felt he looked presentable he walked slowly down the hallway to Sherlock's room.

…

Flashback:

Sherlock lay on his bed staring at the ceiling. The house was quiet; everyone had something else to do, someplace to be. Mycroft, at 13, had plenty of friends to hang out with and he didn't want Sherlock ruining the fun. Mother was at work, as usual, and father was at work as well. Good; he was glad father was gone. He stomach still hurt when father had hit him last night. Sherlock pulled his shirt up and looked at the black bruises that covered his belly. He pulled his shirt down quickly as he felt tears forming in his eyes; no….he was done crying. No more crying.

Sherlock was surprised when he heard the doorbell ring. He got off the bed and walked to the window to look and see who was at the door. When he poked his head out he saw Uncle Garett standing outside. A smile spread across his face as he ran down stairs to let him in; Uncle Garett wasn't his real uncle, he was just one of his dad's friends, but Sherlock loved it when he came over. He was nice to him and played with him; he wished that Uncle Garett could be his dad.

He opened the door and looked up. "Uncle Garett!" he said as he jumped up into and Uncle Garett caught him in his arms.

"Hey, Sherlock" Uncle Garett said with a smile as he held Sherlock. "How are you doing today?"

"Good….now that you're here" Sherlock said. "I was kinda…..lonely" he felt silly admitting it. After all, he was six now and couldn't admit to feeling sad like a baby.

"Are you here by yourself? Your dad isn't here?" Uncle Garett asked.

"No" Sherlock said. "Everyone's gone but me"

"Well, then I guess I'll have to come visit him another time" Uncle Garett said.

Sherlock felt a little deflated. "Are you going to leave? Because father isn't here?" he felt sad but he didn't want to admit it.

Uncle Garett grinned at him. "Of course not…..I've always got time for my little buddy" he gave Sherlock's stomach a playful tickle and Sherlock squealed. "How about we go to the park?"

"Yes!" Sherlock said, happiness rising in him. Uncle Garett set him down on the ground, taking his hand as they walked down the street to the park. Sherlock looked up at Uncle Garett who was so tall and strong as he asked Sherlock about his day and school. Sherlock didn't like to talk to many people, but Uncle Garett wasn't like other people. He was smart like Sherlock was, he found the same things interesting. Most people just got annoyed with Sherlock and didn't talk to him; Uncle Garett didn't get annoyed by his insights and he seemed like he actually liked to talk to him.

When they got to the park, Sherlock ran for the nearest swing and Uncle Garett got behind him to push him. Sherlock smiled as he flew through the air, the wind blowing his curls around, making him feel like a bird that was flying. For a while he forgot about everything that was happening…..he didn't think about father who hurt him, yelled at him….he didn't think about mother who never talked to him….

Sherlock slipped off the swing at some point; he must have let go in his feeling of flying. When he hit the ground, he fell on his stomach, on the bruises. Sherlock felt tears spring to his eyes. He put his fists over them, determined to be a big boy for Uncle Garett. But it hurt so bad…

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Uncle Garett asked as he rushed over to where Sherlock was. Sherlock curled up but the pain was too much and he started crying. "Come on, buddy" Uncle Garett said as he scooped Sherlock into his arms and carried him over to the bench. He sat Sherlock on his knee. "Let's see your stomach, see if you're okay" he said, going to lift Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock pulled it down forcefully. "No!" Sherlock urged through his tears.

"Sherlock, I want to make sure you are okay" Uncle Garett lifted Sherlock's shirt just enough to see his bruises before Sherlock shrugged away. "Oh my God, Sherlock, where did all those bruises come from?" Uncle Garett asked in shock.

"From me falling" Sherlock lied, hoping Uncle Garett would believe it.

"Those didn't come from you falling" Uncle Garett said. "That's from someone's fists. Someone hit you"

Sherlock looked down, not wanting to meet Uncle Garett's eyes. He knew he was lying but he had to; father would hurt him more if he told. That's what he always said. "No….no one hit me" Sherlock lied.

"You can tell me, Sherlock" Uncle Garett said. "If someone hit you, then you need to tell me. So I can protect you"

"I'm fine….."Sherlock whimpered as a few more tears slid down his face.

Uncle Garett leaned in and whispered to Sherlock. "You know he won't know if you tell me."

Sherlock couldn't believe it; it was like Uncle Garett knew what was going on, like he knew what father would say. "I'm always here for you Sherlock….I care about you" Uncle Garett said.

Sherlock began to cry a little more at that; no one ever said that to him. No one seemed to care about him. "Do you? Do you really?" he asked through sobs.

"Of course Sherlock, I'm your friend" Uncle Garett said, patting his back. "Can I please see your bruises? I won't tell anyone…..if you want me to keep it a secret, I will. Because that's what friends do"

Sherlock wasn't quite sure; he'd never had a friend before. But he trusted Uncle Garett. He lifted up his shirt and let him see the big purple and blue marks that crossed his stomach. Concern was written on his face. "I'm sorry this happened to you" he said softly. He looked at the marks a few more moments before leaning down and kissing Sherlock's bruises. At first Sherlock thought it was weird; no one had ever kissed him before. Ever. He pulled back a little. "I'm sorry" Uncle Garett said, noticing Sherlock's hesitance. "I was just trying to make your boo-boos feel better"

"I just….no one ever….." Sherlock said looking away embarrassed.

"Kissed you?" Uncle Garett asked. "What about your mum and dad?"

Sherlock shook his head, another tear falling down his face. "I didn't mean to upset you" Uncle Garett said. "I was just doing that because that's what people do to show they care about each other. Sometimes they kiss each other"

Sherlock looked up at Uncle Garett, who was smiling at him. Sherlock lifted his shirt up again so Uncle Garett could kiss his bruises. It felt kind of nice now that Sherlock knew what it meant. When Uncle Garett put his shirt down again, Sherlock leaned over, putting his lips on Uncle Garett's cheek, giving him a small kiss. Sherlock was a little unsure about it; it was the way he'd seem other boys and girls kiss their mums and dads so he figured it'd be okay. When Uncle Garett smiled at him, Sherlock leaned against him, feeling safe and loved. He really wished that Uncle Garett was his father.


	14. Chapter 14

John paused outside of Sherlock's room, desperate to see him and yet not wanting to at the same time. He wanted to comfort Sherlock, tell him he would find the bastard that had done this and hurt him. But he couldn't do that; Sherlock didn't remember what had happened to him and John had to pretend that he didn't know anything either. John could only imagine what was going through Sherlock's mind; he would clearly be able to deduce what had happened to him through the symptoms and yet he would have no recollection of how it happened or who it was. It must be maddening; it was sure to wreck Sherlock's mental state even more.

John walked into the room and saw Sherlock lying in the hospital bed, staring towards the window. He looked so small and innocent John wanted to cry; the bed practically swallowed Sherlock he was so skinny. His wrists were handcuffed to the bed; John knew that Sherlock technically was a criminal in light of his attack but it just seemed so wrong. Sherlock had been abused, raped, and he was the one handcuffed.

Sherlock heard John's footsteps and his head whipped around. John put a neutral mask on his face. "This is a bit ridiculous, don't you think?" Sherlock asked, moving his cuffed wrists around. He rolled his eyes; hardly looking like a victim. He looked….fine other than his obvious malnourished self.

John sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed giving him a grin. "Seems a bit odd, doesn't it?" John said touching the cuffs.

Sherlock looked down at the bed. "So…..what are you doing here?" John noticed slight hesitation in his voice. He was afraid John knew why he was here. He was….embarrassed.

"Dr. Woodhams called and told me you were in the hospital" John said vaguely.

"So you just came straight over here?" Sherlock asked. He suspected John knew.

"I spoke to the doctor….he said that you stopped eating" John said. "You've always been a poor eater but Sherlock, you can't just stop eating altogether, what were you trying to do?" John kept his voice quiet and slightly jesting so Sherlock wouldn't know the severity of what he knew.

"I was eating…..just not much" Sherlock said looking down at the blanket. He tried to move his hands, almost as if he forgot the cuffs, his wrists clanging against the bounds. John could see pain in Sherlock's eyes but he pretended not to.

"Why not Sherlock?" John prodded gently.

"I didn't feel good" Sherlock said vaguely. John didn't expect him to admit his embarrassing symptoms to him. "I was sick"

That was unusual; for Sherlock to admit he was actually ill was not common. "If you were sick why didn't you go to the doctor Sherlock? Surely you knew you couldn't keep going like that forever"

"I did once" Sherlock whispered, looking at his chained hands.

"You did what once?" John asked. A sick feeling was starting in him.

Sherlock looked at him; John could see trust was in his eyes. He had come to the conclusion that John didn't know anything even though that conclusion was wrong. "I was sick like this once…..I got better eventually" he said simply.

John's stomach dropped into his shoes and he fought desperately to hide it from Sherlock. This had happened before? Was Sherlock honestly suggesting that he'd been violated before? And to this degree? John was glad that he'd already vomited and had nothing else to come up. "It wasn't right to not go to the doctor….you should have went" John said.

He had hoped his voice came out normal but it was obvious that it hadn't. "They told you didn't they?" Sherlock asked, hanging his head and not looking at John. His face flushed crimson.

John knew the best idea was to tell the truth; it'd only make it worse to lie now. "Yeah….they did."

John cringed when he looked over at Sherlock and saw his shoulders shaking; he was sobbing. He couldn't even wipe his tears away and John felt desperately sorry for him. "Fucking bastards" Sherlock muttered. "Why'd they have to tell you?"

"Do you remember how this happened?" John asked, pain pulling at him.

"Of course I don't remember how this happened!" Sherlock yelled through sobs. "I don't remember anything!"

The sounds of Sherlock crying was ripping John apart; without thinking about it, he took Sherlock's hand. He was dismayed when Sherlock flinched and pulled back. "Don't touch me!" Sherlock snapped. John chided himself for his stupidness; he should have known given the circumstances that Sherlock wouldn't want to be touched.

"I'm sorry" John said softly, cursing himself. "And I'm sorry this happened….."

Sherlock continued to cry. He didn't speak; after a while John spoke again. "Sherlock…..you said that this had happened to you before….a different time. What happened?"

"I'm not telling you!" Sherlock said loudly as he continued to cry.

"Why? Sherlock…please let me in." John said desperately.

"I don't want to talk about it!" Sherlock yelled as he looked at John desperately. "Haven't I been through enough?" Hi face was red , tears dripping down it.

John's heart broke; Sherlock had been through enough, more than enough. Though John desperately wanted to know what had happened to Sherlock in his past, Sherlock had every right to not want to talk about it right now. "Okay….I'm sorry" John said. "Sorry I pushed so much" John leaned over to the bedside table and grabbed a tissue. He paused as he brought it up to Sherlock's face. "Can I?" he asked, more sensitive now.

Sherlock nodded, looking down. John wiped the tears off Sherlock's face, feeling his insides ripping away. Whoever had done this was going to pay desperately.

….

John returned to 221b feeling flat and empty inside; he hadn't stayed at the hospital long. Sherlock hadn't wanted to talk after what had happened and he'd been tired so John had left so he could go to sleep. It had been dark and dreary all day and when he walked into the flat it seemed almost like nighttime despite being the afternoon. John turned on all the lights in the sitting room before sitting down heavily on the couch. He stared straight ahead and allowed the events of the day to fully take over. Despite the fact that he thought he had no more tears left to cry, somehow some managed to sting his eyes now and John hung his head, letting them come.

John lay down on the couch, stretching out and pulling a pillow to his chest as he cried. Loneliness and sadness were eating away at him like a disease and he didn't know what to do to make it stop. Sherlock should be here at home where he could take care of him, not in the hospital, chained to the bed. He needed comfort, protection….he needed John. And John needed him. Before all this had happened and they had been going about their daily lives John never had anticipated how much he needed and wanted Sherlock around. He now felt like there was a Sherlock shaped hole inside him he wasn't sure would ever be fixed. What if Sherlock's memories never came back?

John wanted to talk to someone but he knew that was impossible. He couldn't, and wouldn't, betray Sherlock's trust by sharing something so personal with another person without his consent. John stared at the ceiling, feeling completely alone. He hugged the pillow to him closer, wishing it was Sherlock. He was so lonely that he didn't stop to consider that this was an odd thought to have; in fact he allowed himself to run with the thought, clutching the pillow and running his hand along it. It didn't really help, but it was something. When there was a knock at the door that suddenly broke him out of his daydream; he looked up to see Mrs. Hudson at the door and suddenly felt extremely embarrassed as if she knew what he was thinking.

"John?" she said in concern, probably sensing his distress. "I was going to see if you wanted to come down for dinner tonight?"

John sat up quickly, tossing the pillow on the couch. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson that would be very kind of you" he said. His attempt at a normal tone of voice fell flat and he sounded desperate even to his own ears.

"Are you okay?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a voice that told John she already knew he wasn't alright.

"Of course I am" John lied as he stood up and straightened his rumbled clothes. Lying to Mrs. Hudson was like trying to lie to your mother; it simply didn't work.

Oh, John…." She said sympathetically as she moved toward him, not buying a word of his attempt at saving face. She wrapped her arms around him in a hug that he didn't fight; he leaned into the hug as he fought his quivering lip.

"He's hurting so much…..I can't help him at all." John said into Mrs. Hudson's shoulder.

She patted his back comfortingly. "You are helping him" she said soothingly. "You're helping him by caring for him"

"I miss him….." John wobbled out. It sounded so desperate he was glad that she couldn't see him and he couldn't see her.

"I know….." Mrs. Hudson said, her answer stating she understood all that it implied.


	15. Chapter 15

Sherlock remained in the hospital for the next week and John went there every day to visit him. But each day that he went to the hospital he was quickly turned away; Sherlock would yell at him to go away or lay on the bed, faking sleep so he would leave. Each time John respected his wishes and left but it was slowly breaking his heart to do so. Sherlock didn't have anyone in this dark time and now it seemed that he was pushing away the only person he had left. And what was even worse was John knew that Sherlock was only doing it because he was hurting so badly. He was embarrassed, ashamed, obviously didn't want to talk about it. As much as John wanted him to talk about it, at this point he just wanted Sherlock to trust him enough to let him in his room to be with him. Sherlock needed a friend, companionship. Even if he wouldn't talk about the abuse he'd faced in the past.

After a week Sherlock was released from the hospital and sent back to the asylum. John dressed and left the house that first morning he had returned to the asylum, not optimistic. He was sure that when he went to see Sherlock he would be turned away again. He had the past 7 days; but still, like each day before John held hope in his heart that Sherlock would open up just a little.

It was cold, rainy, dreary day, much like John's sprits as he walked from the cab into the asylum. He made the now familiar trip from the ground floor to Sherlock's room. John opened Sherlock's door, hanging his head for a moment as he entered. Sherlock was sitting on his bed, staring out the window at the falling rain. He was crossed legged, his rumpled dressing gown hanging off him. He was pale, though not as pale as he had been; his time in the hospital had obviously improved his health. No doubt they had given him nutritional supplements to improve his health not to mention the terrible infection he'd had was gone now. Sherlock was melancholy as he turned away from the window to look at John. "Leave" he said simply before turning towards the window again.

Today John didn't want to take no for an answer. "Sherlock….please. Let me stay" John said, a slight beg in his tone.

Sherlock folded his arms, still staring at the window. John was struck by how small, how vulnerable he seemed. "I'm not talking to you" Sherlock said simply. No emotion was in his tone. No anger, sadness, shame. Just flat, deadpan voice. He was holding all the pain in where it didn't need to stay. The longer he held it in the more that it would hurt him.

"Listen, Sherlock….I'm sorry" John said as a chill went through him at his rain soaked clothes. "Just please don't send me away. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I really am, that was not my intention. I was trying to help you. I know you don't remember me….but you have to know…..I really care about you. That's why I wanted you to talk, I wanted to try and make your pain go away."

Sherlock's eyes never left the window "No one cares about me" he said in such a small voice he was amazed he heard it. John's heart broke inside him for the millionth time since this whole thing had started.

John walked over towards Sherlock; he almost sat beside him on the bed but thought better of it. Wanting to give him personal space, he sat in the chair by the bed, looking in the same direction as Sherlock so he didn't feel like he was being watched. "I do" John said. He didn't know how he could make Sherlock believe it; everything that had ever happened between them to suggest that he cared about him, Sherlock no longer remembered. "I do care about you a lot. I just want to do what I can to help you."

Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin on them, pulling his arms around his legs. "No one has ever given a damn about me….talking about it is hardly going to help" he said quietly. Finally emotion was returning to Sherlock's voice. It was now tinted with bitterness.

"I'm sure that's not true" John said, trying to sound convincing even though he knew what Sherlock was saying had a lot of truth to it. "What about your family?"

John was sure that Sherlock would pick up on his playing dumb, but he didn't. "I don't have any family. They're all dead and it's better that way" he spat as he stared off into space. "Except Mycroft…..and it's not like he cares"

John measured his words carefully, hoping he didn't say anything to set Sherlock off. "So, then you weren't close with your mum and dad?" he asked dumbly.

"No" Sherlock said with a huff. "I didn't have any kind of relationship with them. I'm sure you were lucky to have parents that loved you and showed it. I was merely a nuisance"

John didn't exactly have an ideal relationship with his parents but he never doubted that they cared about him as parents should for their children. "Sherlock…." John started, but he didn't get far.

"John, don't…." Sherlock said. "Really, you don't have to try to make me feel better about it. It is what it is. I was nothing but a mistake, a freak. Just like I am today"

John's stomach hurt but he forced his himself to remain calm. "Just because you didn't get along with your parents doesn't mean-"

Sherlock cut him off again. "Didn't get along?" he asked angrily. "That's an understatement. They hated me…..no wonder why. I'm a mistake."

Sherlock stared out the window; John allowed himself a moment to look back at him. Sherlock's eyes were filled with anger and sadness as his lip gave a little quiver. "Sherlock, I'm sorry that your parents were so hateful. In a perfect world all parents would love their children the way they are supposed to but unfortunately there are a lot of shitty parents out there. But just because you had a rough time as a child doesn't mean you have to your whole life. Just because your parents told you lies all your life doesn't mean you have to be what they say….and it doesn't mean that what they said was true. You are not a freak…..and you're certainly not a mistake"

Sherlock laid his head down on his knees for a few moments. John didn't say anything or push him, hoping he would be able to compose himself soon. Much to his dismay he saw Sherlock's shoulders shaking. He was crying and John had no idea what to say. He was sure that this was going to get a lot worse before it got better.

Less than a minute later it did in fact get worse; Sherlock's shoulders were shaking as he began to cry loudly. John was cringing, trying to figure out what to do or say. Pain and sorrow was evident in the wailing tone of his crying. John had been trying to make Sherlock feel better but it just seemed that he had made it worse. Not knowing what else to do John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock shuddered under the touch and flinched away, making John immediately regret doing so. "Don't touch me…." Sherlock whimpered.

"I'm sorry" John said gently. "I was just trying to make you feel better. I'm sorry if what I said made you upset. I just…..wanted you to know you matter. To me" John felt heat across his face and he didn't look at Sherlock.

Sherlock gave a dark chuckle through his sobs that sounded more like a growl. "For how long? How long til that changes?" he asked.

John was taken aback. "What are you talking about? I don't think you mattering to me is ever going to change" he said turning towards Sherlock finally.

Sherlock stared out the window, tears still on his cheeks. He made no move to wipe them away. "Only one person's ever told me I matter and they didn't mean it either." He said distantly.

John turned around his chair to face Sherlock fully. He could sense that this was going in a dangerous direction. "What do you mean? Who was it?" John asked.

Sherlock let out anther barking laugh. "It's not important" he said tightlipped. He rested his head on his arms as he stared at the window, his eyes glassy with tears.

"Yes it is" John said. He didn't want Sherlock to shut down again. Not when they were finally getting somewhere.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "Like talking about it going to change anything….especially something that happened years ago"

John paused for a second trying to think of the best way to phrase what he was going to say next. "I'm not sure, but I get the feeling that what happened, at the hospital, what you found out…..brought up some memories. From your past….it has to be painful…..talking could make you feel a little better at least. You don't need to hold it all in Sherlock. That's makes it worse."

Sherlock turned away from the window and gave John a rueful smile. "You're just a little too damn smart, you know that?" he asked before turning back to the window.

"I get it from you" John said, looking down at the tile on the floor.

Sherlock was silent for a long time before he spoke again. "You seem genuine, John" he said finally. "You do seem to really mean what you say. I'm a pretty good judge of character and my instinct is to trust you. You seem honest, caring…..but I've been wrong about that exactly once in my life and it was the one person who said that they cared about me. The one person…..who said I was something other than a freak. It was a person I considered my friend…..my family. And he just…"Sherlock trailed off. He turned pale as he stared out the window, his eyes glazing over as memories appeared to have taken over his mind. John had a sinking feeling that this person that had hurt Sherlock emotionally was the same person who had assaulted him .If he was right, it was no wonder Sherlock didn't trust anyone.

"Well, he didn't mean it….any of it" Sherlock continued finally, his voice shaky. "He lied to me for years. He didn't mean anything he said or did…..so you can see why I find it hard to believe you when you say you care"

John did see; years of being lied to by someone you trusted was enough to break anyone's trust. "Who was he?" John asked finally.

Sherlock hugged his legs tighter to his chest. His face paled even more. " My uncle" he said. He shook his head as if correcting himself. "Not my real uncle. I just called him that. He was a friend of my father's. He was kind to me….my father was so bloody horrible he kind of became like a dad to me"

John's stomach was in knots. This was going to be worse than he thought. "So he was kind to you? At first?" John asked tentatively.

Sherlock nodded. He suddenly looked like a scared child as if the memories were taking him back to that time in his past. "Of course." He said. "He was everything that my father wasn't. He did things with me, spent time with me…..told me he loved me…..I was just a kid. I didn't know any better. I didn't know at first when things got…..weird"

John didn't have to ask to know what he meant by that. His face said it all; when he uttered the word 'weird' embarrassment and mortification were written on his face like text. John pretended that he didn't see it, pretended that he wasn't dying on the inside. "When…..when you say things got weird…..you mean…..when you got….sick like this….the last time?" he asked. He wanted to sound sure and calm but he didn't. He sounded almost as shaky as Sherlock did.

Sherlock nodded. His face was pale and he opened his mouth as he gulped in quickly. John was afraid he might vomit, but he didn't. "Yeah….that's what I mean" he said quietly.

"When was that?" John asked. "Was it a long time ago?"

Sherlock was frozen for a long time before he nodded stiffly. "That was a very long time ago…..but I can see it like it was yesterday" he looked down. "I wish my new memories would be as clear as these…..and I could forget…" he turned green as he spoke.

John looked down at his lap. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" he asked, even though the answer was very obvious.

Sherlock put his arms around his stomach and held himself in a sick pose. "I cared about him…..thought he cared about me. He told me it was normal, that it was what people did when they were grown up. He said I was like a grown up. That I was a special kind of kid who was like a grown up already. I was so young…..I didn't know better"

John flinched. "How old were you….when you first got….sick" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock's eyes were large as saucers and he was green around the gills. "I didn't know what I was doing…..I really didn't" he said staring off into some dark void only he could see.

"I know" John assured him, seeing Sherlock regretted what had happened, and most likely felt responsible. "You were only a kid how could you know?"

"I should have known….I was smart, I should have known adults don't…..with children" he said. His voice was wracked with guilt.

"Sherlock, kids have no reference for….intimacy" John said. He had almost said sex and he was glad he caught himself. The word might make it too real and make him close down.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself tightly, shutting his eyes. "I should have known something….it wasn't normal from the beginning. It was terrible the things I did…."

John's heart broke for Sherlock; not only had he been assaulted he felt guilty for it. Felt like a terrible person. "You can't be responsible for what you did…..what you were made to do"

Sherlock's eyes stayed clenched. "I went along with it…..I didn't try to stop him" he said as pain crossed his face.

"He was an adult that you trusted…..it's only natural that you did what he wanted" John said.

"A normal kid would have said no…tried to stop it" Sherlock muttered, averting his eyes.

"No, a normal kid would have been too scared or trusted the person too much to say anything…..just like you" John tried to assure him. It was obvious that Sherlock had mounds of guilt over this. "He was the only one who showed you affection…..no doubt you cherished that attention"

Sherlock nodded miserably, eyes clenched.

"That doesn't make you a bad person" John said insistently. "If you enjoyed some of it…that doesn't make you a bad person. Everyone wants affection and physical closeness"

Sherlock looked almost grey now from sickness. "I liked the kissing….when it was just that" he admitted so small he sounded like a child.

"Most children enjoy being kissed by family members" John said naively.

Sherlock actually met his eyes for a second before looking away again. "Not the way we kissed…..it wasn't normal" he said cringing after he spoke.

John felt his stomach churn as the images came into his head unwanted. He breathed through his nose as he kept his composure. "That doesn't make you a bad person" John said. "You're uncle was the adult and he's responsible for what happened. Not you"

"Even if that was okay…..the other….things….were not" Sherlock said. "I…."

John watched as Sherlock looked down, a few more tears escaping from his eyes. "I should have said no…..when he wanted me to…..but I just went with him." He muttered.

"You mean when you…..were sick the first time?" John asked. The metaphor seemed safe up until now and John continued to use it.

Sherlock nodded. He looked miserable, tear streaked face covered with pain. John almost wondered if this wasn't the right thing after all, if talking about it was making it worse. "I'm sure you didn't know what was going to happen. You were young…." John wasn't sure he wanted to know how young.

"I was nine…..I knew something wasn't right" Sherlock said as admitting a heinous crime.

John felt sick, really sick. Sherlock's innocence had been taken from him when he was so young, by someone he trusted. It was no wonder he avoided sex as an adult. "What made you think something was wrong?" John asked in a strained voice.

Sherlock's eyes were wide and almost black as he stared ahead. Pain covered his face as he spoke, as if every word was difficult and John was sure that it was considering he was reliving it all as he spoke. "I was staying at his flat one night…mum and dad were out of town…..he told me I could share his room…seeing as he only had the one. I didn't think much of it. Even as we were lying in bed and he started….." Sherlock paused a long moment, seeming to be in pain. "Even when he started to kiss me…..that was just kind of normal. But….." Sherlock slammed his eyes shut as he turned a literal shade of green "then he started taking my clothes off…..and….." Sherlock leaned forward as he paled and John tried to grab the bin in time, seeing what was going to happen but he didn't get to it in time. Sherlock leaned forward and vomited on the floor. When he stopped he was shaking and he looked up at John embarrassed.

"S-s-sorry" he stuttered out, blush coming to his grey cheeks. His face didn't show any relief had come from getting sick; he looked just as sick and miserable.

"Sherlock, don't be embarrassed" John said, his voice catching in his throat. "I'm a doctor…..there's no problem with a little vomit. We'll get it cleaned up. No big deal" John somehow managed to produce his calm doctor voice even though he didn't feel it at all. John grabbed a blanket at the end of the bed and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders. He sat beside Sherlock on the bed, avoiding touching him in case he didn't want to be touched. John regretted making Sherlock talk about it. Nothing good had come of this; maybe talking about it was just too painful.

Sherlock vomited again before he spoke again, several minutes later. "It was horrible…..but it went on so long, eventually it wasn't horrible anymore" he said it quietly. "I was 15 when Garret up and moved…..never told me he was going…..just left me"

John felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach so deep he shivered himself. It couldn't be….had to be a coincidence. "Garret? Was that your uncle's name?" he asked causally, as if his name didn't mean anything. Only it did.

Sherlock nodded. "Yeah, Garret Sydney. I've not seen him since I was 15. I hope he's dead…."

John felt the walls close in on him…..there was no way this was a coincidence.


	16. Chapter 16

Flashback:

Sherlock leaned against the headboard of the bed, feeling the dizzy sense of intoxication fill his head. It made his thoughts slow, unproductive; the case was over, he had solved it earlier that evening. That was the only reason that he was allowing himself to give in to the fogginess of intoxication. Otherwise he wouldn't let his feelings get in the way; but now, with the case over there was nothing to distract him from the memories and feelings he'd been trying to repress ever since he'd gotten here. Sherlock had actually been reduced to going to the liquor store; he felt like he needed to disinfect himself after leaving there. Now he looked at the glass bottle on the bedside table, his vision blurry; the bottle was close to being empty. He shouldn't have drank so much…..

Feeling overwhelming dizziness, Sherlock lay down on the bed. He was planning on going home tomorrow, but maybe he should have just went ahead and gone home. The quietness, the emptiness of the hotel room was enough to suffocate him. Suddenly he longed for 221B desperately; to get away from Garett and the memories that he held, to get away from his past. To get back to John. His stomach felt a twitch as he remembered the awkward fight they'd had before he left; John was probably glad that he was gone.

Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and stared at it, thinking about calling John. Luckily he still had enough wits in his brain to stop him; he wasn't that drunk yet. No….he'd just have to wait until tomorrow to see John. Hopefully things wouldn't be strange like they had been recently.

Sherlock heard a knock on the door of his room; figuring it was housekeeping or something annoying like that, he ignored it. When the knocking continued he shouted at the door "Go away!". But the knocking kept persisting; Sherlock got off the bed slowly, catching his equilibrium before walking towards the door slightly off kilter. Making up his mind that whoever was at the door was going to get an earful from him, he wrenched the door open only to freeze when it was opened. Garret was standing at the door, a small smile on his face. Sherlock considered just slamming the door in his face; after all, what did he owe the man? Nothing. The case was solved ad he was leaving; he wanted nothing to do with Garett anymore. But for some reason he didn't shut the door in his face; Garret had actually been kind to him in the few days he'd been here. They'd rarely talked about anything other than the case and Garret had kept his distance. He hadn't tried anything….though Sherlock had made sure that they were never alone. Not like now; Sherlock had to remind himself that he was a grown man now and he was fully capable of fighting back. That was easy to forget when Garret was around.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked. He tried to make his voice sound steady, but his sudden need to lean on the doorframe for support made it less convincible.

"You're intoxicated" Garret stated. Sherlock could see the stare in his eye as he studied him. Sherlock, who had always liked the fact that Garret was like him, now found it annoying.

"Brilliant deduction" Sherlock said annoyed as he rolled his eyes. He tried to let go of the doorframe but he couldn't stand upright without it. Damn alcohol…..this is why he never drank.

Garret gave him a look of concern "Can I come in for a bit Sherlock?" he asked quietly. If Sherlock didn't know better he would think Garret was genially concerned.

"No….no you may not" Sherlock said quickly before he could do something stupid like believe him.

Garret seemed a bit put off but he didn't argue. "Okay…." He said "Well, I just wanted to say thanks. Thank you for helping us solve the case. I wish we had you around all the time….we'd get so much more done"

That was an odd thing for Sherlock to hear; he was used to everyone at the station muttering 'freak' and 'psychopath' under their breath at him. It felt good to be appreciated. "Just doing my job" Sherlock muttered quietly.

"I know you were" Garret said. "But thanks…..Really. I know that you wanted to leave the second you got here but you stayed and I thank you for that"

"Well, one of us knows how to not run away" Sherlock muttered under his breath. He honestly thought he had not said it aloud until he saw the dawning expression on Garret's face.

"That's what this is about…..that's what's been bothering you the whole time" Garett said with understanding. "Sherlock….." he reached out a hand as if to touch Sherlock's arm and Sherlock flinched back. Garret's hand froze and then pulled back.

"I don't know what you're talking about" Sherlock said defensively.

"You're upset because I left…..all those years ago and you're still upset I left" Garret said. It wasn't a question.

"No, I'm upset for a hell of a lot more than that" Sherlock said as he glanced up and down the hallway. "You're smart enough to figure it out."

Garret looked down at the ground before looking up at Sherlock again, sadness in his eyes. Sherlock knew from experience that Garret could fool him, could fake things better than anyone he knew. But for some reason Sherlock felt Garret's pain seemed genuine. "I'm sorry I upset you….it was never my intention to do that. You know….ever since you were a little boy I-"

"Don't say it" Sherlock warned, his voice filled with malice. The last thing he needed to hear, when he was drunk, when he was feeling lonely, when he felt weak and confused, was to hear Garret imply that he had feelings for him. Sherlock had convinced himself a long time ago that Garret's feelings were all a façade. "You-Don't" he said forcefully.

Garret shook his head. "I'm sorry you feel that way" he said, his voice strained. "Because it's the truth….whether you believe it or not. I know you've convinced yourself it wasn't real because I left but-"

"I convinced myself it wasn't real because it wasn't" Sherlock said angrily. A couple walked by his room at that moment and Sherlock scowled at them with his best look of contempt. They looked away and scurried off. "You didn't care about me…..otherwise you wouldn't have…." Sherlock slammed his eyes shut before looking at Garret "you wouldn't have done those things to me"

Garret closed his eyes before he spoke again. "I'm sorry that I did those things to you before you were ready. I shouldn't have done that" he said softly.

"I was never ready!" Sherlock practically shouted. He expected someone to poke their head out of their room but no one did. "I was a child!" he hissed. Sherlock felt himself shaking slightly. He had no idea why he was telling Garret anything; the words were spilling out like vomit when he should just shut the door and leave. He couldn't stop himself.

Garret looked up at Sherlock, his face calm. "I know you were….in the beginning" he said. "But when I left, you were more than old enough to make me stop….and you didn't. Think about that" he said, looking at Sherlock knowingly.

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to let Garret take the argument this direction; implying that he had wanted any of it. "No…..no…..it was your fault….you did it. I didn't want any of it" Sherlock insisted. The argument sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Was it Sherlock?" Garret asked. His voice was soft….comforting. Sherlock shook his head; this bloody alcohol was ruining his brain. "Sure….it was a bit much in the beginning. But you were a brave boy for me…..you kept going"

Sherlock felt emotions rising up in him in an almost uncontrollable level. Anger, confusion, sadness, the need to cry…..he couldn't let Garett see it. "You're a sick bastard" Sherlock muttered through clenched teeth holding in his anger and his mounting desire to cry. "I kept going because I was kid and you were an adult. I didn't know I had a choice in the matter" He closed his eyes and breathed deep, holding in all his desperation. "You used me….used the fact that I cared about you to manipulate me, to make me do what you wanted me to"

"You've got it so wrong Sherlock" Garret said as he looked into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock wanted to look away but he felt frozen in his stare. "I cared about you….loved you. I still could if you'd let me. You loved me too….how many times did you tell me that? How many times did you seek me out? You want to act like I was the one to initiate it, but you're forgetting how many times you came to me seeking affection. More times than I came to you…."

"Shut up…." Sherlock muttered. Desperation dripped from his voice as memories came back. Garret needed to stop talking….he needed to shut up so Sherlock could ignore this, pretend none of this had ever happened.

"You're trying to ignore it" Garret said softly; that low convincing tone that was killing Sherlock slowly. "But that doesn't change the fact that you cared about me just as much as I cared about you. Doesn't change the fact that you relied on me. That's why it was so hard on you when I left. Remember how you used to come to me when you were hurt; I would tend to your wounds, try to make it better? How you would climb into my lap and sit there? Even when you got older you still did and that was nice. Remember how I'd play with your hair" a smile played on Garret's lips at the memory. "You'd sit in my lap and I'd hold you close to me….running my fingers through those pretty curls of yours. Sometimes you'd even fall asleep like that"

"Shut up!" Sherlock said, his voice more of a growl this time. He was speaking like it was real, like any of this was real and it wasn't. He didn't want to think about those times, the times that he'd put himself out there only to be hurt. It just brought to the surface the fact there really was no one that had cared.

Garret ignored his outburst. "I miss that, Sherlock. I miss you" he said in sincerity. "I miss those times you came close to me like that. No one else gets to have you like that; I feel privileged. I mean, who else can say that Sherlock Holmes came to them for sex-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Sherlock yelled as he slammed the door of the hotel room in Garret's face, locking the multiple locks on the door before he collapsed on the floor of the room. Sherlock pulled his legs up to his chest, trying to hold himself together. Pain shot through him as the memories rushed back to him; he didn't want to acknowledge that Garret was right, that he had a point. He needed something, anything to ease the pain. The alcohol suddenly seemed to be of no affect to him now. Sherlock shut his eyes as the desire for drugs flowed through him; no…..it had been so long. He couldn't give in now; it was the only thing that might calm his nerves but he didn't want to give in after being clean for years.

Sherlock's mobile buzzed and Sherlock grabbed it to himself; John. If he wasn't so hysterical he would answer it. John would help calm him but he couldn't talk to John in this state. Sherlock slid the mobile across the floor where he couldn't reach it; one more day….one more day and hopefully this nightmare would be over.

…

John intertwined his fingers and put them behind his head as he paced the bathroom, breathing deeply, trying not to panic. John had quickly made an excuse to go get a janitor to help clean up the vomit on the floor; he was glad that he had maintained composure long enough to get out of the room; Sherlock had enough to think about and worry about right now without the addition of the knowledge that John had.

John paced, the longer he breathed, luckily the calmer he became. He closed his eyes; this was no conscience, it couldn't be. Garret Sydney….he had abused Sherlock for years. Manipulated him, violated him…..it was no conscience that as soon as Sherlock had come in contact with him he came home damaged and hurt. He had to be the one that had raped Sherlock now; there was no other explanation. Rage bubbled deeply in John's chest. He could kill the man….really he believed that he could the way that he felt now. He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white, feeling his blood pressure rising. The way he'd spoke to John so confidently, causally….John never would have assumed anything was wrong. Right now he just wanted to find him and make him pay for what he had done.

John paused and focused on his breathing until his heart rate calmed; that was exactly why he couldn't do anything right now. He was afraid he might actually do something illegal and that wouldn't help anyone. The last thing Sherlock needed was for the one person who cared about him to be put in jail. He couldn't even do anything legally; without Sherlock's memory he had no evidence that Garret was the one that had violated Sherlock this time. John's stomach sank as he considered that Sherlock might not even want to press charges.

John went to the sink and splashed some water on his face to cool down before he left the bathroom to find the janitor; Sherlock had been alone for a long time and John didn't want to leave him that way for long. He could vent his anger later, at home.

When John returned to Sherlock's room with the janitor, he found Sherlock sitting cross legged and still on the bed; he was still shaking, the blanket slowly working its way off his shoulders. John thanked the janitor as he left and sat down on the bed beside Sherlock. Sherlock stared ahead, his face pale and blank. He didn't speak or acknowledge that John was there. John sat beside him for a long time; he wanted to say something, to give Sherlock some sort of comfort. But John knew that nothing he could say would make it better; what could he say that could possibly lessen the hurt of a lifetime of abuse and loneliness? The only time that John made a motion to leave Sherlock was when the announcement came over the intercom system that visiting hours were over. When John stood up, he felt a slight pull on his shirt. When he looked back he saw that Sherlock was holding onto his shirt with his fingers, not looking at him, still staring ahead.

"Don't" Sherlock said softly. His voice croaked out weakly and it spoke volumes to John. Don't leave, don't go….please stay with me…..I need you here.

"I don't want to go Sherlock….but they won't let me stay" John said. Sherlock didn't make any motion to let go.

"Don't…" Sherlock said. It was more desperate and miserable and John didn't know what to do. Sherlock looked like he might fall apart if John left; never once had Sherlock ever acted like he needed John for anything. Sherlock actually needed him. He didn't have anything else…..how could John deny him that?

"Well, they're probably going to throw me out if they come round" John said, "but I'll stay til they do"

Sherlock finally looked up at John; he didn't smile but he looked relived. John wasn't sure what Sherlock was expecting him to do; he stood still and followed Sherlock's lead, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

Sherlock lay down on the bed, not letting go of John's shirt. John was frozen uncomfortably for a second, looking behind him. What did he do? Did Sherlock want him to sit down? Lay down? If he messed up he might scare Sherlock away. John was relieved when he felt Sherlock tugged on his shirt; he felt it was reasonable enough to assume that he should sit down.

John sat down on the bed beside Sherlock, turned sideways toward him. Sherlock's eyes were closed and he tugged more on John's shirt. John's eyes darted around as he wondered if Sherlock was really asking him to lie down. When John stayed where he was, he felt the tugging get more persistent. Sherlock wouldn't speak, wouldn't even look at him; eventually John laid back, hoping it wouldn't freak Sherlock out. He lay back on the stiff mattress, turning on his side so that he had room to stay on the small bed with Sherlock. Sherlock had finally let go of his shirt and seemed to be at peace. John felt a weight fall off him at Sherlock's calming countenance. John had never expected Sherlock to let him stay today and he certainly hadn't expected him to share what he had. Even if he had he wouldn't have guessed how hard it would be on Sherlock; watching the rising and falling of his chest John realized that he was already sleeping. He was completely exhausted.

Not knowing what to do, John stayed lying on the bed, watching Sherlock sleep for a long time, trying to figure out what to do; what could he do, if anything, to help Sherlock through this trauma? He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there when a nurse came in the room. John heard the door creak open and a young nurse poked her head in. John's head whipped around and he expected her to tell him to leave. He wasn't going to make a move until she demanded that he leave though. To his surprise, when she looked from Sherlock to John a smile spread across her face; sliding back out the door, she pressed her finger to her lips in a quiet gesture. John felt his own self begin to smile. She wasn't going to make him leave; maybe Sherlock could rest better knowing John was here, even if he had just been through a lot.


	17. Chapter 17

Warning: Brief Mention of Suicide

John's hopes for Sherlock to have a restful night were not fulfilled. It had taken John a long time to fall asleep in the small uncomfortable bed and he was sure that he hadn't been asleep for long when he felt something smack him across the face. He didn't even have time enough to recognize what had happened before he was crashing to the floor. John hit the cold, hard tile floor on his back, the wind knocked out of him. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, squinting in the darkness before he pulled himself up and turned the lamp on. Within a second he saw what the problem was; Sherlock was thrashing around in his bed, clawing at the sheets and screaming at the top of his lungs. John was alarmed; he had seen plenty of nightmares and night terrors in his army days and he'd even had his fair share, but he had never seen one this extreme. Sherlock was thrashing so much that he was banging up against the wall, hitting his head roughly when he did. The scream that was coming from Sherlock barely sounded human and it scared John to his core. John sat down on the bed and attempted to put his arms around Sherlock to restrain him so he didn't keep hitting his head. Sherlock fought him viciously, clawing at him as he struggled against John's grip. "Sherlock…..it's okay…..calm down" John tried to soothe Sherlock. Sherlock just kept screaming. "No…..don't…..please don't!" he screamed in his sleep.

John did his best at holding Sherlock and he at least was able to keep him from hurting his head which he considered an accomplishment. "Sherlock, it's okay….no one's going to hurt you" John begged Sherlock to hear him in his dream but he didn't.

"Don't hurt me…..please…" Sherlock half screamed, half moaned in his sleep. John didn't even want to attempt to imagine what Sherlock was dreaming about. John held on for a few more minutes, his strength beginning to wear out against Sherlock's surprisingly massive amount of strength when finally Sherlock emerged from the horrible nightmare he was prisoner to. He stopped screaming as his body shook awake; he stopped fighting and fell limp against John as John felt an uncomfortable wet spot form across the bed. John sighed heavily as Sherlock began to whimper pitifully like a child. At first John thought he was just crying, but it was strange…..he actually sounded like a child. Too much like a child. He went from limp to rigid in John's grasp as he whimpered. "If you're going to do it….just do it already" Sherlock said in a small voice, one that was not his own at all. Again, he sounded like a child.

"What, Sherlock?" John asked warily. He was beginning to believe that Sherlock was still trapped inside his mind whether he was asleep or not. "Do what to you?"

"What you always do…..when you come to my room at night" Sherlock whined, tears beginning to fall down his face.

John's stomach dropped; flash back. That was the only explanation. Sherlock was having a flash back of something that had happened when he was a child. John proceeded very cautiously. "What's that?" he asked.

"I don't like to say it!" Sherlock cried, becoming more rigid against John. "I've told you I don't like it, but you do it anyway. It hurts me a lot"

John felt the now familiar rise of bile in his throat when he realized what Sherlock was talking about. "What hurts you…..explain it to me"

Sherlock whimpered, rubbing his eyes. "I told you before…..it hurts me…when you put your ….thing…. in me. I don't like it." He said quietly. "Can't you just hold me this time? Like you used to?"

John couldn't stop the tears from spilling out of his eyes; he forced himself not to completely lose it but he couldn't hold the tears completely. "Yeah…..I can do that. I can just hold you tonight" John said, his voice cracking.

Sherlock turned around, putting his arms around John's neck and scooting into John's lap, his pants quickly becoming soaked from Sherlock's wet pajama bottoms. John put his arms around Sherlock and tried to give off an air of ease even though he didn't feel it.

…..

The sun was peaking up slowly over the edge of the horizon when John got back to the flat. He felt numb as he flopped down on the couch in fatigue as the morning sun began to come through his window. He laid his head back against the couch as and closed his eyes, unable to forget the horrible events of the night before.

When Sherlock had sat on John's lap during his flashback, he had been shaky and upset; it hadn't taken very long however before he had calmed down, his breathing calming and his shaking stopping. John wasn't sure when he had ever been so uncomfortable as he had been in those moments. Sherlock clung to him like a child; even worse was the fact that in Sherlock's eyes at the moment he was seeing John as his attacker. Instead of pushing away and being alarmed about this, Sherlock was holding onto John and showing him genuine affection. Despite the pain and suffering that Garret had put Sherlock through, he genuinely cared for him. John could only hope this was because Sherlock had reverted back to his childhood memories and that Sherlock didn't still feel that way. But John had an unnerving sense that this wasn't the case.

Sherlock had finally calmed down and was almost asleep against John when the door of Sherlock's room swung open and the nurse came in. John was alarmed to see that it was not the same nurse as the one that had come in earlier and allowed John to stay, Anger and judgment crossed her face as she took in the scene. "What are you doing here?" she asked, anger tinting her tone. "You're not supposed to be here"

Sherlock's head popped up as he looked back at the nurse with a sleepy expression on his face. John had just opened his mouth to explain the situation when the nurse had turned out of the room; in less than a minute she had come back with two men that John could only guess were security guards.

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked looking at John with a growing expression of alarm on his face.

"Nothing…..it's okay" John said calmly, not wanting Sherlock to get upset.

John looked at the guards that were crossing the room towards him. "Listen….this is just a misunderstanding. He was upset so I stayed here with him. I-" but that was as far as John got. In the next moment one guard was pulling Sherlock off of him and the other was pushing John towards the door. John looked back at Sherlock who was growing hysterical very quickly, his voice still shrill and childlike. He was begining to scream and cry, trying to get at John, practically clawing at the security guard but the other man was much larger and Sherlock didn't stand a chance. The last thing John saw before the door slammed in his face was Sherlock trying to attack the guard and the nurse around him, screaming hysterically before the nurse pulled out a syringe, no doubt to sedate him.

John felt his blood boiling at the sight as the guard pushed him down the hallway. John put his feet down on the ground, digging in and refusing to move as the nurse came out of the room. "Why the hell did you do that for?" John asked angrily, trying to ignore the painful grip the guard had on his arm.

The nurse gave him a cold expression. "Watch your tone…..you're not even supposed to be here. Visiting hours were over hours ago. You're lucky I don't call the police"

"What for?" John asked exasperated. "I was comforting him….helping him. That's a lot more than I can say for you…..You didn't need to sedate him like that. He was upset because I was gone"

The nurse scowled. "He would have escalated…..become hysterical, unmanageable. It's better to sedate him for his own safety."

"You act like this has happened before" John said angrily.

"It has" the nurse said, "Often. He has nightmares, flashbacks that make him become frantic. It's best to put him to sleep. Come back during normal visiting hours" the nurse motioned to the guard who led John forcefully out of the hospital.

Remembering it all, John's eyes popped open. He stared up at the ceiling, anger building in him fresh again. He couldn't believe that this had happened to Sherlock before. A lot, and the staff there just drugged him up and put him back to sleep. He didn't need that; he needed John. He had been fine with John there; John chose to put the fact that he thought John was Garret in the back of his mind. John knew that Sherlock was sick, but he wasn't getting any better at the hospital and honestly John wanted him at home where he could protect him.

Knowing what he had to do but not wanting to, John got up and went to his room, changing into clean clothes while he gathered the nerve. Once he had changed and was walking back into the sitting room he felt like he had gathered his nerve. He picked up his mobile and sat back down on the couch, dialing the rarely used number. After a few rings he heard Mycroft's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello John" he said in a tired drawl.

"We need to talk…..now" John said, his voice stern.

"There is nothing to discuss" Mycroft said icily from the other end.

John scowled even though Mycroft couldn't see him. "Yes there is…..you need to come over here. Sherlock's not okay and you know it" John said. He really thought Sherlock might benefit from being at home where John could take care of him; he knew that he wasn't a psychologist but he had to do something

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the phone. "If you insist we can discuss it….but I'm not sure you will gain the response you're hoping for."

"I do insist" John said curtly on the other line of the phone. "See you soon"

John fidgeted on the couch while he waited for Mycroft, rubbing his head as it began to pound from lack of sleep and the horrible events of the day before. His emotions were on a roller coaster of highs and lows, feeling anger, hurt, pain, sadness, rage in various levels one minuet and feeling next to nothing the next minuet. John closed his eyes and tried to relax but it was impossible. How had it come to this? That this horrible nightmare was actually his life now?

Not long after speaking on the phone John hear footsteps on the stairs as Mycroft walked into the flat, not knocking before entering. Naturally.

He walked leisurely into the flat and sat in the seat that Sherlock normally occupied; this annoyed John to no end though he didn't exactly know why. John walked over and sat in his chair across from Mycroft. "Hello John….not been sleeping well I see. You should take yourself a rest" he commented in a pleasant voice. John gave him a hard stare.

"I'm finding it difficult to sleep considering the circumstances" John said.

Mycroft looked off to the side, away from John's gaze. "I'm taking that to mean Sherlock" he said idly. "You're concern for my brother is keeping you up at night. How touching"

John felt his blood boiling at Mycroft's lack of concern, combined with his fatigue and mental strain. "Could you act like you give a damn for five seconds?" John asked irritably.

Mycroft looked at John, all traces of pleasantry gone. "I do care" he said flatly. "That's why I remain firm in the idea that Sherlock is exactly where he needs to be. He should not be released"

John's look of surprise that Mycroft seemed to know exactly why he wanted him here must have showed because he continued. "That is what you wanted, right John?" Mycroft asked. "For me to use my great big government powers to get Sherlock out of the asylum? Well, I won't do it….Sherlock needs to be there."

John bit his tongue for a moment, his head spinning; he really needed some proper sleep. His emotions were overtaking him. "He doesn't need to be there…..he needs to be at home. He's having these horrible nightmares and the doctors don't even do anything about it…..he's calm when he's with me" John hoped that Mycroft couldn't somehow see his thoughts and see through the fact that Sherlock was calm because he was seeing John as Garret.

Mycroft gave John an actual look of sympathy. "John….I see that you genuially think you are the best thing for Sherlock. He is lucky to have to you….but you are not what he needs right now"

"Yes I am" John insisted. "He needs to be here…..so I can protect him" The words sounded so vulnerable and hollow out of his own mouth and he regretted them as soon as he spoke them. John was the one sounding desperate.

"You can't protect him" Mycroft said with certainty. "We both know that. Sherlock's biggest enemy right now is his own mind. You can't protect him from that; he is unstable and he needs professional care before he hurts someone else"

John looked down at the ground, feeling anger but feeling too drained to express it. "You don't understand. If you knew what he'd been through then you would feel differently"

"I know all about Garret"

John's head shot up at the words; surely Mycroft couldn't mean it. Surely he couldn't have known all the pain and suffering Sherlock had went through and chose to ignore it, let Sherlock spiral down into the abyss that had become his mind now and not done anything until it was too late. John was sure that there were daggers in his eyes as he starred at Mycroft. "You knew…you knew he'd been attacked?" John asked angrily.

Sadness trailed across Mycroft's face "Yes…..I wish I'd gotten there in time to protect him. I failed him in that" he said grimly.

John jumped up from his seat and walked over to Mycroft, leaning down into his face as his anger built. "You bloody knew about this the whole time?! All those weeks after he was attacked….why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you fucking do something!?Get him some help?" John's fists balled up so tightly that it soon grew painful. "Tell me, with all of your power why is that bastard still walking the streets?"

Mycroft gave John a calm look that infuriated John. "John, sit down and calm down" he said gesturing to the chair.

"Why? Why should I? "John asked frantically. "You've done nothing for him….you need to do something about this maniac…..put him in prison…..make him disappear. Something…..anything! Make him gone….." John felt ice run through his veins; he actually wished the man dead. For the first time ever he actually wanted someone dead; desperately wanted him dead.

Mycroft sighed. "John…..you have no idea the true affect Garret has on Sherlock. Sit" he said forcefully.

John didn't feel like sitting but he knew that Mycroft was not likely to talk until he did. He threw himself down in the chair roughly, staring at Mycroft. "Well, then explain it to me" he said irritably.

Mycroft sat back, weariness shown on his face. "I should have intervened immediately after I knew what had happened….that Garret had assaulted Sherlock. But you'll have to understand that for a while I didn't know for sure that it wasn't…..consensual."

John's eyes widened. "You're saying that that you actually thought Sherlock would go to Garret willingly to be…." John's voice cracked and he found that he couldn't say the words.

Mycroft glared at John as if he was slow or annoying. "What I am saying is that Sherlock and Garret have a complex relationship. I wasn't sure…..Sherlock does care about Garret, deeply. One might even venture to say that he loves him"

John felt his stomach churned at that. "Love?" he asked bitterly. "You're telling me that Sherlock loves someone that hurt him, abused him?"

"You have to realize John that Sherlock's relationship with Garret goes back to his childhood, goes deep. He filled the void that was created by the disappointment that was our own father" Mycroft said. "Our father hurt Sherlock on a regular basis from the time he was very little. I didn't know about the severity of it until I was much older. Sherlock met Garett when he was five years old. He was lonely, impressionable. At the time, his relationship with Sherlock was innocent. He took him places, played with him. Did all of the things that our father didn't do with him. Showed him affection, love…."

John glared at Mycroft. "So, because he was kind to Sherlock you let this go on….let it escalate…..let him use Sherlock?"

"I didn't know anything about it until Sherlock tried to kill himself" Mycroft said angrily in defense. His face showed a slight tinge of pink after he had said it, obviously not having meant to.

John's face dropped. "Sherlock tried to kill himself?" he asked quietly. Just when John thought that it couldn't get worse, more information presented itself to prove him wrong.

Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed deeply before he went on. "Yes…and he damn near succeed. Would have too, if I hadn't found him" John could see pain in Mycroft's eyes as he relived the memory. "He was fifteen at the time; I was at home on holiday from uni. Sherlock had been acting strange that day…..that whole week really. He was so withdrawn, sad. He stayed in his room all the time and every time I saw him he appeared to have been crying. I asked him about, but him being Sherlock he didn't tell me anything. That day I told him I was going out to meet some friends. He was silent but I had no idea that I shouldn't leave him alone. I had gotten to the pub where I was meeting my friends and discovered I'd left my wallet at home. I went home and walked to my room to get it…" Mycroft's eyes darkened as he stared ahead. "The bathroom was on the way to my room. The door was open and I could see him…." Mycroft paused for a long time, seeming to compose himself at the painful memory. "Sherlock had taken all of the pills that were in the medicine cabinet and had cut his wrists." Mycroft cringed. "It was a miracle that he survived. A true miracle…When we were waiting for the ambulances, Sherlock's eyes opened a little; I asked him why he did it. He said he had nothing left …..that he'd lost the one thing he cared about"

John was speechless; he didn't know what to say and he just stared at Mycroft. After a few moments, Mycroft spoke again. "Sherlock was put in a mental hospital after he recovered from his wounds. He wouldn't tell the doctors anything, not surprisingly. He was in there for a long time before he finally began to tell them that he was upset over losing a friend"

Mycroft paused a long time. "When I tried to talk to him about, what he had told me the day I found him, he denied it. I wasn't surprised, I expected as much. Unfortunately, I had begun to suspect that something not quite right was going on with Sherlock and Garret" Mycroft looked down at his hands before meeting John's eyes, guilt obvious in them. "I should have seen it a long time before that….probably would have, but it was Sherlock and he was just a kid…..I didn't want to believe it. Him and Garret were just a little too friendly….it got worse the older that Sherlock got. It seemed too coincidental to me, that Sherlock's depression directly coincided with Garret's sudden move. He shut down, didn't want to talk to me about it. But the look on his face was enough to guess a lot. Took a long time before I pieced together what had happened." Mycroft gave John a curious glance. "You're very fortunate that he told you about his abuse…..quite remarkable actually. Even with no memory of you he must really trust you."

John looked down at his hands before looking at Mycroft. "You've known about it all this time and you didn't do anything to Garret….why?" he asked angrily.

Mycroft scowled. "Don't you think I would have if it wouldn't destroy Sherlock?" he asked. "He bloody tried to kill himself because he left, what would he do if I had him….taken care of? It would have made things worse. I tried to get Sherlock to press charges but wouldn't. I was adamant about it, but Sherlock insisted that he would not testify against Garret." He looked at John. "Trust me when I say that Sherlock needs to be in the hospital. Garret's hold on Sherlock is immense. Deep down Sherlock knows that Garret has abused him. But deeper than that is his desire for him to care for him; he believes that he's the only person who genially loves him"

John didn't want it to be true; it was too sick, too twisted. Garret was a monster and he needed to be put away. He didn't want to believe that Sherlock wouldn't do anything to stop him. He didn't want to believe that Garret still had such a hold on him.

"So you won't do anything to get him out of the hospital?" John asked. He knew that the answer would be no; he even doubted whether Sherlock should come home. If everything Mycroft was saying was true, maybe Sherlock really did need to be in the hospital.

"I think we both know it's for his best" Mycroft said with a knowing look.


	18. Chapter 18

Flashback:

The icy wind cut through Sherlock's coat to his skin, his cheeks stinging from the cold. He quickened his pace as he walked the now familiar path to Garret's house. School had been hellasious as usual; he had been cornered that morning in homeroom by the usual gang of mindless idiots that always harassed him. He'd tried to drown them out, ignore their stupid insults but it'd been hard to do when they have dumped all of his books in the floor and then laughed endlessly about it . When as he stooped to pick them up, one of the boys had kicked in him from behind while the teacher was so conveniently not looking (she was a total idiot) and he'd fallen face first into the floor. The rest of the day had proceeded as such; due to the horrible argument he'd had this morning with father (which had ended with a smack to the face, over what Sherlock was still not sure of) he'd forgotten all of his assignments and received detention for it. Which meant another hour at the hell hole that was his school. By the time he left he was practically itching to get out.

Sherlock felt relief wash over him when he saw Garret's house come in view; finally he could talk to someone that wouldn't call him a freak or try to hit him. Garret had been on a business trip all week and Sherlock had missed him. He'd actually been lonely…..

Sherlock pushed the door open, the warm air of the flat hitting him in the face as he went from the icy cold of outside to the warmness of the inside. "Hello" Sherlock called out as he took off his coat and hung it beside the door. Garret popped his head around the corner of the kitchen "Sherlock….how nice to see you. You're just in time; I've just put the kettle on" he said pleasantly from the kitchen. "Go on and sit down and I'll be in there in a minuet"

Sherlock sat down on the couch in front of the fire place, glad for the fire blazing warmly there. He rubbed his hands together to warm then and was just beginning to regain the feeling in his fingers when Garret came back into the room with a pot of tea. Sherlock gladly took the cup and drank the hot liquid. He looked up from his cup and saw Garret watching him.....no, studying him…it was the same look that he gave other people when he was trying to deduce something about them. He met his eyes for a second before averting them. "So, what's bothering you Sherlock?" Garret asked as he set his cup down on the table.

"Nothing" Sherlock lied, taking anther sip of his tea. He didn't look at Garret but he could feel his eyes on him. Sherlock didn't want Garret to ask him about his day, what had happened. It had been so horrible he was afraid he might break down; he might even do something ridiculous like cry. While he'd cried his fair share in front of Garret over the years, more than anyone else, he was 12 now; he couldn't act like a baby.

"Sherlock" Garret said in a slightly chiding tone. "Don't lie to me….I can tell when something is wrong.

"Its nothing" Sherlock lied, feeling tears sting his eyes. He tried desperately to hold them in. but they just wouldn't stay. He shouldn't be crying, he should be happy; this past week had been hell with the idiots at school and his problems at home and no one to confide in. Everything should be okay now that Garret was home. But still he felt the tears coming. "I just…..missed you is all" The tears became too much and spilled over his eyes.

Sherlock was embarrassed at his show of feelings; he looked over at Garret with shame but he had a small smile on his face. "Come here Sherlock" he said comfortingly as he held out his arms for Sherlock. Within a second Sherlock had moved over so that he was sitting in Garret's lap, laying his head against Garret's chest. He should be embarrassed by his show of weakness but he didn't care; Garret had reached out to him and he was desperate for affection.

"Been a rough week then?" Garret asked quietly as Sherlock sobbed against him. After a few moments he felt Garret's fingers working through his curls, playing with his hair. The gentle touch was enough to help Sherlock begin to calm down ; his sobs became less and less. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, sighing as Garret played with his hair. When he had calmed down enough that he wasn't crying anymore, he tilted his head up so that he was looking up at Garret, sitting much like he had when he was much younger. Garret smiled at him "Want to talk about it?" he asked, pushing a stray curl out of Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock had wanted to talk about, but now he just felt like he wanted to stay like this, being held and feeling safe. "No…..this is better…..I just want to forget about it" Sherlock said. Garret nodded. "Okay" he said before leaning down and giving Sherlock a kiss. It had felt so strange in the beginning when Garret had started to kiss him on the lips; he didn't think he liked it, even when it wasn't part of Garret's…'nighttime' visits. Even after a while it still had seemed strange. It wasn't until recently that something had changed and it didn't feel so strange anymore.

After what seemed like a long time Garret finally moved away from Sherlock a smile on his lips. "What's gotten into you?" he asked. "Not that I'm complaining, at all"

Sherlock didn't want to admit it to Garret; it would be rude to tell him he was just now beginning to enjoy kissing him back. Plus he didn't really understand what he was feeling. "Nothing…..nothing" he said, moving over to kiss Garret again, almost pulling him towards him. Desperate.

…

It was almost nightfall when Sherlock returned home. He was almost running towards home, the wind and cold even worse now than before. He was out of breath as he opened the door and closed it tight again. He house was quiet and Sherlock leaned against the door, catching his breath for a moment. He didn't know what had happened; he hadn't ever done that before. Garret's night visits had always been something he'd feared and dreaded. He had known that he had to do what Garret wanted to do to get what he wanted; he had to do that stuff before he'd be kinder and do the cuddling Sherlock liked.

Sherlock put his fingers to his lips, thinking about what had happened; he had started it, he had done it this time. He hadn't been thinking, he'd just done it. It scared him…..he didn't know what it meant. His fingers began to shake as his stomach rolled nervously.

He didn't even notice Mycroft standing on the stairs until he was right next to him. "Sherlock, you okay? You look like you're going to be sick" he said.

"I'm….I'm…." Sherlock knew the word that he needed to say was 'fine'. He was fine, he was okay. But he wasn't sure he was.

Sherlock pushed past Mycroft and ran up the stairs to the bathroom. He leaned over the toilet, feeling like he was going to vomit but nothing came up. When was the last time he'd eaten? He wasn't actually sure.

Deciding he wasn't going to be sick he sat down on the floor of the bathroom, wrapping his arms around his stomach, trying to figure out what he was feeling.

…

John had been so exhausted after Mycroft left that he had immediately fallen asleep on the couch despite it being the middle of the day. He was so tired that he didn't care; however, he came to regret it. His sleep was punctured with nightmares, all involving Sherlock; bleeding, hurting, dying…..

John finally jerked awake from his sleep, sweating and breathing hard. He sat up, running his fingers through his hair and trying to wake up. He wiped the sweat off his brow and tried to still his shaking hands. It was late afternoon he could tell by the position of the sun; he could hear Mrs. Hudson running the vacuum downstairs, traffic out on the street. Life was normal for everyone but him…. His life had been consumed with Sherlock ever since the attack. He felt like the darkness that was consuming Sherlock was beginning to consume John as well.

John was completely at a loss at what to do for Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft had a point that Sherlock should be in the hospital; he probably was too much of a handful for John to take care of right now anyway. But then again, what did he have but ample time on his hands? And he just wanted Sherlock at home…..it was eerie, the flat without him. Even though it had been weeks, all of Sherlock's things were still where he had left them and John still hadn't gotten used to the silence and Sherlock's absence. It just always sent off the air that it wasn't right, being here without him. It just reminded him how broken Sherlock was.

John sat up on the couch and tried to force himself to think about something else, anything else. But it was no use; the problems were consuming him. He had to talk to someone. But John knew that he couldn't tell someone else about what Sherlock had told him; it would betray his trust in the worst way. But he knew if he didn't talk, didn't get some advice he would go crazy. Suddenly he thought about his therapist; he hadn't been to see her in a long time, but he could talk to her. Telling her about Sherlock's issues wasn't the same thing as telling someone personal.

John was feeling a bit relieved when he thought about talking to his therapist; maybe she could even give him some advice on how to help Sherlock. He was about to call her when his mobile buzzed with a text. John looked down at his phone, surprised to see a message from Sherlock.

Where are you? Are you coming to see me today? –SH

John honestly hadn't been planning on seeing Sherlock today; it was so late already and he really wanted to talk to someone, take a break from the dramatic onslaught that was seeing Sherlock these days. He suddenly felt guilty; Sherlock didn't get a break from the pain. If he needed John, John should be with him.

…

When John got to the asylum, he found Sherlock sitting on his bed, cross legged, hands together in his thinking pose. John walked into the room, not sure Sherlock would notice him. Sherlock had often gone hours while in his mind palace without noticing John's presence even when he was speaking to him. John walked slowly and cautiously in, not wanting to disturb him. John couldn't help but notice Sherlock really was showing the toll of the night before; his face was pale and drawn, made even more noticeable by the dark bags under his eyes. His hair was disheveled and tangled as if he hadn't brushed it in a very long time John wondered how Sherlock had been after he had left last night, wondered whether or not he had slept any. He had been sedated, sure, but that wasn't real rest. John was willing to bet that he hadn't gotten any real rest all night.

John walked over to the chair by the bed and pulled it closer before sitting down. He saw Sherlock tap his fingertips together several times before opening his eyes. He uncrossed his legs and turned to face John. "Hello" John said, giving him a small smile; after yesterday he didn't know what to say to him. He didn't know how Sherlock was feeling; he obviously wanted contact or he wouldn't have asked him to come. But that didn't mean he wanted to talk about anything, especially anything that had happened yesterday.

Silence hung awkwardly in the air until, thankfully, Sherlock broke it. "I had a dream about you last" he said giving him a hard to read, stoic look.

John didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. "Really….what happened?" John asked cautiously.

"Well, I guess it was more of a nightmare" Sherlock said thoughtfully. "It was quite horrible…..I think it was real"

John sat up a little straighter. "You mean like a memory? What was it?" he was excited that prospect that Sherlock might be remembering something that he had had lost.

"I stabbed you" Sherlock said, looking down at his hands. "It was really terrible actually…"

John thought about it with a pain; it was terrible. Every second of it had been horrible and it was a nightmare that he had relived several times in his sleep since then. He forced himself to remain calm. "How….how did it happen?" John asked.

"I stabbed you in the shoulder; I remember feeling angry. I was so angry at everyone…..even you. It was like I was so angry I couldn't stop myself…..it was scary" Sherlock looked back up John, fear in his eyes. "I stabbed you and then ran away. Police caught me and tackled me down to the ground…..that's when I woke up" Sherlock looked at John seriously. "Is that like what happened?"

John looked back at Sherlock with honesty "Yes….that sounds a lot like what happened" he said. "That's a good thing though….that you remembered it"

John could tell that Sherlock didn't see it as a good thing; he looked down at his hands, pulling at the edge of his blanket. "It's not good….I stabbed you. I saw it…..I remembered it. I wish I didn't" he said.

John sighed. "Sherlock…..it's okay. I'm not mad at you about it….I'm just glad you remember something"

"You should be mad at me, John" Sherlock said giving John a slightly angry look. "I stabbed you, I didn't care either. I did that to four other people…..I'm just glad I don't remember that"

John looked at the ground. It was good that Sherlock didn't remember at the moment that his attacks on the others had actually been much more violent than John's. "Well, I'm not going to be mad at you" John said with certainty. "I know you were different when that happened."

Sherlock looked at John as if trying to read him. He must have determined that John was serious because the anger melted off his face. "I hope you're right…..hope I'm not really that much of a monster"

"You're definitely not a monster" John said with sincerity.

"Maybe you don't know me" Sherlock said. He looked down at his hands, almost sadly. John didn't know what to say; if he'd learned anything since the attack was that Sherlock really believed himself to be worthless, dangerous and guilty of things beyond his control. It made John sad to no end; how could he convince Sherlock otherwise when he had most likely felt this way his entire life? Before John stepped in to say anything else, Sherlock said, "I want to go home….I hate this place"

John looked down at his hands; I want you home too, John thought though he didn't voice it. Maybe he could talk to Mycroft again; even if he couldn't come home maybe he could visit or something. Anything. "I know you do….but its where you need to be" John said even though he didn't believe it and it hurt to say.

"Why did you leave last night?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John looked at Sherlock who was staring down at his hands; it wasn't obvious but John could see that Sherlock felt abandoned. He didn't remember what had happened and he thought John had just left him; just like everyone else.

"When they did the rounds later in the night a nurse made me leave" John said simply. No need to bring up the nightmare, the flashback or the staff sedating him. Sherlock had more than enough to deal with. If he didn't remember it, then John wasn't going to remind him.

"Oh" Sherlock said. He seemed to sense that John was holding it back but he didn't press him on it. He lay back on the bed as he stared at the ceiling. "I want to go home" he said again softy, almost to himself.


	19. Chapter 19

Mycroft….please" John said in a slightly pleading voice.

"No" Mycroft said firmly. "I made my decision and I stand firm on that"

John sighed, resisting the urge to throw his mobile. He had stayed with Sherlock until visiting hours were over. When he had gotten home he decided to call Mycroft again in the hopes that he might be sympathetic to Sherlock's pleas to come home. It would seem that he wouldn't.

"Just for a little while" John urged. "Just a visit. If he's starting to remember things, maybe being at home will trigger his memory"

"John, I know about the nightmares, flashbacks" Mycroft said calmly. "Sherlock is not stable. He's very sick"

"I know that but being home would help" John urged.

"And what are you going to do John?" Mycroft asked condescendingly. "When he remembers?"

"W-what do you mean?" John asked confused.

"When Sherlock's memories come back it won't be a good thing." Mycroft said. "It took a very long time for Sherlock to recover from Garret's leaving the first time. He suffered with depression for a long time after his suicide attempt; I'm still convinced that it's the reason he got into drugs. He was finally better…..now it's going to start up again. Maybe even worse this time….."

"Why do you say that? Why would it be worse? What happened?" John asked.

"I don't think that's my place to tell you exactly what happened between Garret and Sherlock" Mycroft said infuriatingly. "That should be Sherlock's doing"

John bit his tongue and cursed under his breath. That was so typical, so Mycroft. Tell him just enough without actually telling him anything. "He doesn't bloody remember it!" John said angrily. "And if he did he wouldn't tell me"

"Don't be so sure" Mycroft said. "Sherlock trusted you enough to tell you the abuse of his childhood. That is saying a lot. He may tell you when he remembers…but the point is, it's not going to be pretty. I don't want him binging on drugs or trying to cut his wrists again"

John cringed. He didn't want to think that Sherlock might do such a thing. "Please Mycroft…..I can take care of him, watch him. I'm with him most of the time anyway…..and when I'm not there….." he paused as he was going to admit it. "He's all I think about anyway. Please"

There was a long pause. Mycroft finally said, "John….I really think this is a bad idea. I will allow a small visit home, but then he goes back. You understand?"

John felt happiness flow through him; Sherlock would be home again! Even if it was for just a moment. "Yes….thanks" John said.

"And John?"

"Yeah?"

"If something happens to Sherlock while he's at home with you, you'll regret it"

John's stomach twinged. "It won't…..I promise."

…..

John's sleep was restless that night; he had a hard time falling asleep, he kept getting cold and hot, he couldn't get in the right position. Eventually he fell asleep only to be woken up shortly later.

John's phone was ringing on the bedside table and he squinted as he switched the light on. He fumbled for his phone, seeing Sherlock's number on the screen. When he saw it was 4:30 in the morning, John could only guess what he was calling for.

"Sherlock….you okay?" he asked as he picked up the phone.

All he could hear on the other end of the phone was muffle sobs. He sat straight up, instantly worried. "Sherlock….what is it?" he asked.

The sobbing rose persistently for a few moments and then began to calm. "Help me…." Sherlock's voice called out pitifully.

"What do you need help with?" John asked. He could only imagine what was going through Sherlock's mind.

"Help me….please" Sherlock's voice said weakly. John wondered if Sherlock was even fully awake or if he was having a dream or flashback again. He didn't exactly sound like himself.

"I can help you Sherlock, but you have to tell me what is wrong" John said.

"It's so dark…..so dark, John" Sherlock moaned into the phone. John was almost sure now that he was not fully there. But at least he was in his head enough to call John.

"What's dark?" John asked. "Your room?"

A small hiccupping sound came from Sherlock's mouth. "Darkness…..so dark…..and cold…help me. Help me!" Sherlock shouted at the phone.

"Sherlock, it's okay" John tried to reassure him.

"It's so dark…..in my head…"Sherlock wailed. "I need…I need…"

"What, what do you need?" John asked. "I'll get you what you need"

Sherlock cried out in agony, a sound that ripped through John's heart. "You….." he said in a whimpering voice.

John sat still for a second, not knowing what to say. He recovered quickly though. "Me? You need me?" he asked.

"Yeah…." Sherlock said quickly. "I don't know why…..but you make him go away."

John's stomach twisted nervously. "Him?" he asked even though he was fairly certain he knew what Sherlock was talking about.

"Him…..I don't think about him…I don't see him when you are here" Sherlock moaned.

John bit his lip; he was thinking of something to say when he heard a weird gasping sound on the other end. There was a pause and heard Sherlock's more regular voice, though he seemed confused. "Uh…..John?" he asked.

John sighed; Sherlock had been dreaming or having some sort of similar episode. "Yeah, Sherlock, it's me" John said.

"Why did you call me?"

"I didn't, you called me" John said carefully. "I think you had a nightmare. You're okay, though. Just go back to sleep Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay" Sherlock said sleepily before hanging up.

John hung the phone up and put it back on the side table. He got up from bed and made his way slowly to the bathroom like a zombie. He used the toilet and then splashed cold water on his face, feeling sick to his stomach. He looked at his pale, drawn face in the mirror before looking away. He looked like hell…..he felt like it too. Sherlock's mental issues were starting to wear on his own mental health. It consumed his time, consumed his thoughts. Which would be fine if he could do something about it but he couldn't.

John took a wet washcloth with him and lay on his bed, rubbing the cloth over his face. You make him go away…..I don't see him when you're here. The words echoed in John's mind, unbidden and unwanted. John couldn't imagine how he made Sherlock's demons go away; didn't want to be Sherlock's cure. He didn't have any answers. He pressed the cloth into his eyes; he was going to kill Garret if ever got his hands on him.  
.......

 

John looked at the window as the rain pelted hard on the window; anything to distract him from the mounting sense of betrayal he felt. He had just told his therapist everything he had to tell about Sherlock and this whole awful mess that had come from that one miserable case. John knew that telling Ella was not the same thing as telling someone else but he still felt embarrassment on Sherlock's part. Sherlock would feel so betrayed if he knew that John was telling someone about his problems. It wouldn't matter that she was a therapist. But it was worth the guilt that he felt to be able to hopefully have some tips to help Sherlock.

"So what can I do? To help him?" John asked, staring at the heavy puddles that were forming on the sidewalk outside.

"You keep saying that John, that you need to help him….why do you think you need to help him?" Ella asked.

John's eyes shot over to her, sitting there so calmly it made him angry. "What do you mean? Of course I need to help him, he's my best friend and he's suffering" John said angrily.

Ella gave him a flat look. "John….you are a solider and a doctor. You're used to fixing things…..you know though that it's not your job to fix Sherlock, right?" she asked.

"Have you not been listening to me?" John asked. "I've told you how I help him….he's better when I'm there"

"I'm sure that he is" Ella said "I'm not saying that. You're comforting to him, you're his friend. But that doesn't mean you need to fix him. By being there for him, talking to him, you are helping him."

"I want him to get better" John said through gritted teeth.

"It isn't your responsibility to make him get better" Ella said, "you need to let go of the guilt that you're responsible for Sherlock being sick or well."

John looked down at his lap. "I should have done something….." he said sadly. "I knew he was sick, knew something was wrong." He dug his fingers into his eyes. "I did nothing and that bastard's walking on the street. Free….open to hurt Sherlock again"

He looked up at Ella who was giving him a sympathetic look. "What exactly am I supposed to do about him…..I just want to…." Hurt him….kill him…

"You're not supposed to do anything about him" she said calmly.

John cursed. "He's a manipulator…..he…." John bit his lip. "He raped Sherlock…..over and over again. How can I not do anything?"

Ella looked down at her papers before looking back up at John. "I'm not a child psychologist and I'm not specialized in sexual assault" she said. "But what Sherlock is experiencing is a very common response for abuse victims"

"What?" John asked.

"It is not uncommon for a person who has been abused over a long period of time to develop feelings for their attacker, especially if they have known the person as long as Sherlock has"

"No" John said firmly. She had to be making it up; this wasn't natural and it wasn't okay.

"John, you're looking at this as a purely sexual relationship"

"Of course I am….Garret is a rapist" John said through gritted teeth, his anger making him have a headache. "Sherlock had to have fucking surgery after it was over….didn't you get that part?!"

Ella didn't allow John's anger to get to her. "Yes….I got that part. But their relationship is still not completely sexual. Sherlock sees Garret as someone who cares about him, loves him. I doubt he even sees it as a sexual relationship. He would most likely describe him as a friend….or a replacement for the father figure he never had"

That was disturbing on so many levels John rose from his chair. "I think we're done here" he said curtly. Ella obviously had no idea what she was talking about.

"John, please" Ella beckoned him to sit again but John did not. He stayed frozen standing in place. "I think I understand why you are upset. You're upset about the abuse, but even more so you're upset that he has feelings for Garret"

"If one more bloody person assumes we're a couple….." John started angrily.

"I don't mean feelings like that" Ella said. "You see that Garret has abused Sherlock and that makes you very angry. You want Sherlock to be angry at him too; mad for the things he's done to him. You're upset that Sherlock actually seems to care about the man who has hurt him so badly all of his life. But you have to understand that he's most likely based his entire idea of what a relationship is on the affection he's gotten from Garret because that's all he's ever had." She paused. "The best thing you can do for him is be there for him. Talk to him…. and let him know that someone besides his abuser can care for him."


	20. Chapter 20

John was drained and emotionally exhausted after his meeting with Ella; he really just wanted to go home and sleep, or rather lie around and try to sleep. But he knew that he should visit Sherlock. He had enough time during the long drive to the asylum to compose himself somewhat; he was so angry after he left Ella's. He wanted to believe that she was crazy, that she had no idea what she was talking about. But deep down he knew that he was mad because he knew she had a point. He'd seen the affection Sherlock had given him in his flashback; he cared about him. John refused to believe that Sherlock might have willingly gone to Garret now as an adult but he knew that something was going on to have put Sherlock in the position to be hurt; Sherlock was strong and could fight very well. It wasn't likely that a man in his late 50's who was smaller than Sherlock could overtake him. John wasn't sure he wanted to know exactly what had happened that night.

When John got to Sherlock's room he found him pacing by the window, the sun glinting on his face. He turned around at the sound of the door and John was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock was smiling. "Hello, John" he said pleasantly. It was the happiest that he'd seen Sherlock in a long time.

"Hey sunshine" John said good naturaly as he walked in and sat on the bed facing Sherlock. "What's got you so happy?" Not that it mattered; he was just glad that Sherlock was happy.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm getting out of here…..I'm leaving this godforsaken place tomorrow" he said. "Mycroft finally did something useful with his power and they are letting me go home. Not permanently, they say it's just for a visit but maybe if I can start pulling myself together they will leave me alone and let me stay at home."

John smiled; he hoped that that was true even though he knew Mycroft was going to insist Sherlock come back shortly after returning home. He wasn't about to tell Sherlock that. "That's great Sherlock…..it will be nice to have you home" he said.

Sherlock's face suddenly changed from a smile to a fallen expression. John noticed immediately. "What?" John asked.

"It won't be home….." Sherlock said crestfallen. "The home I remember isn't the one I live at anymore"

John hadn't thought about that; coming home might be stressful for Sherlock. But even so John hoped that being there would help jar his memory. "Well, no….but you'll like it Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson's there, I'm sure she'll spoil you when we get home."

Sherlock looked down sadly for a few moments before he looked up and smiled. "You're right…..all that matters is that I'm getting out of this hell hole."

…..

Flshback:

With one push of needle into his ivory skin, Sherlock felt the rush instantly. He closed his eyes and flexed his arm, sighing and feeling relaxed. He sat back in the chair and just…was silent. His mind was silent. It was amazing, spectacular…for some long amount of time his mind was completely free of his concerns as the drugs coursed through his veins. It wasn't until he opened his eyes that he felt the tug inside him of guilt. He saw the used needle on the table and considered years of being clean down the drain; he thought of John and how disappointed he'd be.

Before he knew it Sherlock had taken another hit. Soon he wasn't thinking about John and guilt anymore. His mind was free floating for a long time, no thoughts to annoy him. It was a long time before he began to think….think….think….

His thoughts were slow and no matter how much he didn't want to think about Garret, there he was. The words he'd said earlier, their fight. He was angry because of everything he'd done to him. Angry at him for leaving….angry because he was right, because what he said was the truth. Angry because he still wanted him; wanted to be loved.

Garret's kind words in his ear as he stroked his hair, Garret tending his wounds after father had beaten him, Garret rubbing his belly when he had the flu and no one else cared, sleeping beside Garret in bed when he was frightened…not sleeping in bed with Garret….

No…..his mind screamed at him. None of that was real. Right? No…it wasn't real. He made it up, it was all fake. But who does that?

Before he knew it, Sherlock was stumbling out the door of his hotel room; he was going home tomorrow and this might be the last chance he had to give Garret what he deserved for abusing him.

…

John and Sherlock stood in front of 221b, staring at the door. John didn't exactly know what to say to Sherlock but he didn't want to push him either. Sherlock was just standing there staring at the door, confusion written on his face. John knew he was trying to place the unfamiliar door but it was obvious he didn't remember it. Sherlock clutched his small bag of belongings with one hand looking like a child who had run away from home. John was beginning to get a little uncomfortable standing there when Sherlock finally opened the door and walked inside.

John walked beside him and up the stairs. They had almost made it all the way up the stairs when John heard Mrs. Hudson's voice. "John….Sherlock? Is that you?" she asked as she popped out of her door.

John and Sherlock turned around. "Hello" John said casually though he could tell Mrs. Hudson was just focused on Sherlock. He could see tears in her eyes as she crossed the small space between her and Sherlock. She reached out and gave Sherlock a gentle hug; barely squeezing as if she felt he might break, and released him, a tear finally running down her cheek. John smiled slightly at the sight; it was like watching a child being greeted by their grandmother. "Sherlock dear, it's so nice to see you home." She said with a smile despite her tears.

Sherlock smiled at her; a genuine smile. "It's good to see you too" he said. "I'm very glad to be home too." The way Sherlock was looking at her was almost relived; relived she was someone he remembered. Something familiar in this odd home he didn't remember.

Mrs. Hudson dabbed at her eyes. "You boys come down for dinner tonight, you understand?" she said. "I must insist."

Sherlock smiled. "We wouldn't think of missing it" he said good naturally before they parted ways and Sherlock continued to follow John up the stairs. When they got into the sitting room Sherlock froze again, just like he had at the front door, taking in the sight of the place that was supposed to be a comforting home to him but was strange and new like so many things in his life. He walked around the room, looking at different possessions, recognition in his eyes for the objects even if he didn't recognize why they were here. It was sort of painful to watch and John made a quick excuse to make some tea to go into the kitchen, hovering by the pot as it brewed but watching Sherlock as he did so. John was glad when Sherlock finally found his violin; he picked it up and ran his hands over it like it was a long lost friend and immediately dove into playing it. John smiled a bit at the sound of the notes filling the long too quiet flat; he hadn't realized how much he'd missed that sound until he heard it playing again.

When the tea was finished John brought it into the sitting room and set the pot and two cups on the table. John poured some for him and Sherlock, waiting until Sherlock's tune was done to say. "Here's some tea if you want it"

John was surprised when Sherlock turned around to face him; Sherlock's tune had been happy and so John was alarmed to see that his face was a mask of pain. "I think I'll take it in my room" he said quietly before taking the tea and leaving the room. John sat down and stared at Sherlock as he left, not wanting it any more.

…

Sherlock had spent the rest of the afternoon in his room, only emerging when it was time to go down to dinner with Mrs. Hudson. John spent most of the day worrying about Sherlock; with his mental state so unstable he didn't like leaving him in a locked room alone but he knew that Sherlock needed that. Needed to be around his things, have privacy; things he hadn't had at the asylum. And no doubt the flat was a bit overwhelming for him now.

Dinner had been nice; quiet but not too quiet. Sherlock seemed calm and spoke occasionally but it was difficult for the three of them to have a conversation when Sherlock didn't remember the recent past and John didn't know Sherlock's distant past that he was stuck in now. John noticed he didn't eat very much, but he did eat something and for John that was good enough for now. After his infection and his illness John knew he'd have to watch his eating patterns more than he had before.

Sherlock was quiet when they returned back to their flat; he seemed tired and a bit lost, looking vacantly around the room. John wasn't particularly tired but he thought that maybe Sherlock would go to sleep if he did. "Well, I think I'm going to turn in" John said. "I'll be up those stairs if you need me." Sherlock didn't say anything but just nodded before walking back to his own room.

John changed his clothes and got into bed, leaving his door cracked. If Sherlock even made a peep in his sleep, John wanted to hear it.

….

Sometime in darkness of the night, John was woken by horrible screaming, His eyes shot open in the darkness of his room, fumbling on the side table for his lamp, turning it on as he came to his senses. He sat up, breathing hard and he heard the screaming continue; it wasn't a dream.

John got up from bed, a little too quickly, stumbling out of the room and shakily going down the stairs and to Sherlock's room. When he wrenched the door open quickly, the screaming almost deafening when he came in. All of the lights were on in Sherlock's room and Sherlock was thrashing around in his bed violently, hitting his head on the headboard every few seconds as he fought something that could be seen only by him.

Not relishing the idea of having to try to restrain Sherlock but having no choice, he jumped into Sherlock's bed, getting behind him, becoming a shield between Sherlock and the headboard as he grabbed Sherlock. It seemed that Sherlock was even stronger this time than last and didn't succeed in holding him down so much as just prevent him from hurting his head. Sherlock squirmed against John's touch, beating his head backwards into John's neck and face. "No! No!" he screamed at the top of my lungs. "Don't…please don't!"

"Sherlock….it's me. John. You're okay…..please calm down" John urged though he was sure that Sherlock wouldn't hear him.

"I don't want to…no….Stop!" Sherlock screamed at the top of his lungs, hurting John's ears and tearing at his heart. John knew he couldn't do anything to help him. Not wanting to startled him too much by waking him, John held on until at last, after a few minuets he repeated the same shaky, jerking awake as he had the last time, shuddering against John violently as he wet himself. John, both exasperated and relived, breathed a sigh of relief as Sherlock slumped forward. At first John thought Sherlock was done; he remained quiet unlike last time. John was just about to detach himself from Sherlock when Sherlock looked back at him startled. John could tell instantly from the look in Sherlock's eyes that it wasn't him…well not the grown up him at least. "Garret?" he asked, looking at him.

John didn't even remotely want to pretend he was Garret but he knew it was the only way to keep Sherlock calm. "Hi….Sherlock" he said uneasily.

Sherlock's cheeks blushed red. "You can't stay tonight, Garret" he said urgently, embarrassed.

"Why?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at his lap, shame on his face. "I….I….."

"What is it, Sherlock. You can tell me" John said. As much as he hated knowing what Sherlock was seeing, any information he got might help Sherlock in the long run.

Sherlock put his hands on his eyes like he was trying to hide he was crying. "I peed the bed" he said in a small voice.

John was relieved that he was aware enough this time to know that he had. John turned Sherlock around so that he was facing him in the bed. He moved Sherlock's hands away from his face to see tears forming in them. "It's okay…..everyone does that sometimes" John said calmly. It was strange interacting with Sherlock like he was a child. Strange and unnerving.

Sherlock wiped at his eyes. "Only babies do…..I'm not a baby. I'm supposed to be your little man"

John sighed. "You are, Sherlock." He said "Everyone has accidents, even grownups. Why don't we change your sheets so you're more comfortable?"

"No!" Sherlock said worriedly, gripping John's arms. "You can't!"

"Why not?" John asked. Surely even young Sherlock wouldn't want to wallow in a wet bed.

"The sheets are in the downstairs closet….mother and father would see you" Sherlock said urgently. "Then you'd have to say why you're here and you said we could never ever tell anyone. Please don't go, don't let them know!" Sherlock said putting his arms around John's neck.

"Okay….okay, Sherlock" John said quickly, his hands automatically falling to Sherlock's waist when he clutched him. "I won't leave…..I won't tell anyone. I promise. You should at least change your clothes though."

Sherlock nodded before detaching from John. He walked over to chest of drawers, searching for pyjamas; he was so quick to disrobe that John just had time to avert his eyes before Sherlock stripped down. John was ultimately convinced that Sherlock was lost in his head; this was the man who wouldn't even be seen in public in shorts, having not a single fear of getting completely naked in front of him. Luckily, he didn't see much; it felt wrong as Sherlock would be horrified of doing so in his right mind.

When Sherlock came back to the bed in dry pyjamas, he surprisingly climbed into John's lap unaware of how big he was. John did his best to hold onto him, propping the pillows up so Sherlock could sit in his lap comfortably. Sherlock nuzzled his head against John's chest and John hoped he wouldn't notice John's quick, nervous heartbeat. They sat like this for a long time, John holding onto Sherlock as his arms became increasingly numb, waiting for him to fall asleep again. Finally, he felt Sherlock's hand on his chin. When he looked down at Sherlock he was not prepared as Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.

John had considered before what it would be like to kiss Sherlock; not because he was gay like everyone assumed he was. Quite the opposite in fact. With everyone making ridiculous assumptions that he and Sherlock were a couple, he pondered how epically wrong a relationship with them would go if they were to try a romantic relationship. If they'd had such a relationship, John always assumed a kiss from Sherlock would either be cold or filled with pure lust and no affection.

He hadn't expected it to be like this; warmness, tenderness, Sherlock's hand in his hair. For a second he got lost in it, forgot what he was doing. There was caring, affection and even love in the gentle way Sherlock's lips moved along his own. He began knotting his fingers in Sherlock's hair a second before the realization hit him.

The love and affection was there but it wasn't John he was directing it at. It was Garret. When he looked at John now, when he kissed him he saw Garret. What Ella had said was true; despite everything Garret had done to Sherlock, he loved him. Genuinely loved him. As uncomfortable as he was with that realization he was even more uncomfortable when he realized that this was the mind of a child Sherlock who was kissing him like an adult. The thought made him sick.

As natural as he possibly could, John broke the kiss off. When he pulled back, Sherlock was looking at him at wide, trusting eyes. "I love you" he said with a sigh and a smile as he gazed up at him.

John felt a punch to the stomach; it should have bothered him the most that Sherlock actually loved his abuser. And it did, but what bothered him the most at the moment was that Sherlock would never utter those words to him. His friend, his partner, the man who did everything he could to protect him, help him; he didn't love John, not in any sense of the word. But Sherlock loved Garret, the man who had done nothing but hurt Sherlock, whose only shows of affection were a cover for the abuse he dealt to him.

Somehow John managed to get the words out. "I love you too, Sherlock" he said looking down at him. He only wished Sherlock could hear him saying the words as himself and not as Garret.


End file.
